Like veins seen faintly beneath the surface of the
skin, the gray marble is lined with a tracery
of black, blue, and green. Washed clean by
a winter’s rain and buffed by an hour of sparse
sun.
The drunk girl plants a kiss on the polished
slab, then stumbles away laughing. Her full lips
have left behind the imprint of a ghostly fig,
fading even as he traces it with his index finger.
She skips the five points of an invisible star,
teetering knock-kneed, landing on three,
missing the rest.
Alone in the morning plaza he bellows imagination
into invitation, calling after her to return,
to lie with him on the cool stone,
to let him fill her with seed, to wait together
as it dribbles out, to watch together
the pattern it makes as it flows
across the smooth stone.