I've been drawn and quartered
into more sponge than body,
absorbing and wringing
upon command. To see
your eyes skim lightly
over a polished vessel
(all sundrench and glitter)
stuns and disproves.

Plato was wrong: appearances
determine reality. Artifice
(O neptune eyes, O coral lips)
is a discipline, too,
profoundly alchemical.
Meanwhile, I trip around
in a state of mismatch,
as enticing as clam chowder
but learning.