Mon dieu. There are two of us.
In the gold of this Paris spring there are two.
Ma déesse. There are arms.
In the sweet of this Paris morning: so many arms.
Mon amour. There is power.
In the sex of this mythical Paris there is power.
There are now, mon coeur, four of us. You. Me.
Them. They made you from bronze. Small. Smaller.
Beautiful. There is no space to place
A sheet of paper between the two of us.
Behind glass: look at the two of them silent and wrapped
In the fast, foiled ecstasy of our instructive anger.
No-one in either world knows where we come from
Or where we're going. In our arms
We each hold the four-faced head of Brahma.
We have no physical form; we are each born
In the visions of others, and these two staring at us
Are themselves metaphors. Compassion and wisdom.
Wisdom and compassion. I cross my arms
And try to keep you safe.
But maybe you're too wise for that?
So often, they show you dancing on a corpse,
Angry, for their benefit.
So often we want to fuck in these dusty galleries
Yet have to make do with this simpler voyeurism.
Watch them, watch them:
They leave us here and move on to some old painting.
Mon dieu. Ma déesse. There's only really one of us.