Fountain of Diana at the Louvre

Arm draped like a debutante’s
around her stag’s long white neck,

she’s not so school-girl gorgeous after all.
No swift strong hands to brush back

the hair from my eyes or stain my mouth red
with berries. Her eyes are emptied of seeing.

Her bow, an afterthought; her quiver, gone missing;
one of her dogs, very angry.

We circle her for a hint of moon as the day’s last
lean-in light sculpts its quarry: the two of us, bereft

of one another, hearts beating fast to slow
the mute recriminations of marble and fine dust.