No tourists.
Water turning a mill wheel,
serving nothing but artifice.
I am a servant
to order and erotic love.
Soon to be
yours.
You take a picture
of me by a trellis,
both of us failing
at the vernacular style.
In the Temple of the God
of Love, a naked
boy clutches an arrow.
Once, in the manicured
pasture, they reclined
holding shepherds’ crooks,
noble women
who pretended
to be someone else,
their wigless hair
tucked into
washed linen, their dresses
fastened with ribbons,
even now, the murdered queen
and her reassembled effects
making room
for art. We throw out
pieces of an unwanted
bâtard,
your gloved hand
feeding the pond—
the regal, monogamous
swan, the hungry,
whiskered fish
you drop the bread on.
