Galatea Encore

 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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