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Galatea Encore

by
 As though the mercury's under its tongue, it won't
talk.
As though with the mercury in its sphincter, immobile, by a leaf-coated pond a statue stands white like a blight of winter.
After such snow, there is nothing indeed: the ins and outs of centuries, pestered heather.
That's what coming full circle means - when your countenance starts to resemble weather, when Pygmalion's vanished.
And you are free to cloud your folds, to bare the navel.
Future at last! That is, bleached debris of a glacier amid the five-lettered "never.
" Hence the routine of a goddess, nee alabaster, that lets roving pupils gorge on the heart of color and the temperature of the knee.
That's what it looks like inside a virgin

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