She lays her body down along the sand, interrupting the horizon
With her soft waves that break me to pieces, I want to ride them
From depths where I drown my body looking for relief
From want of stillness in the chaos of screams
From ambition where I drown the meaning of my words
From lusts who aimlessly dance about in the surf
Like Aphrodites threatening me with their births
This one, though, stood naked and formed, heralded by angels
Hovering about the clamshell she rode, herself a mainline
She invites me to collect my pieces, casting out her fishing net
Like a prophet.
One by one, I stab them with calculated thrusts of my spear
Putting each piece back together in webbing spun from the silk
Of her hair: my mind, my heart, my spirit, my body, my soul.
At first they flop about like temperamental children wanting attention
Until twilight when I lie naked before her asking to be healed.
Art: The Birth of Venus, Sandro Botticelli