By Greek time, poetry and falsehood are as
old as each other. I yearn to touch something
existing before and after me, on the shores
of the Aegean or in my bloodflow, under seashells
or in the shell of the ear. I succumb to the
underwater waves. The genesis of blood cells
and verses is poesy. The pulse quickens going uphill.
What can it be like, stiffening into a pillar on the Acropolis?
The caryatids’ dictum is don’t move, their concept is bearing up.
Figures tense under the linen drapery: not word, not body.
Sensuality was carved from stone, but survives the sinews
and the model. Touching the marble is strictly forbidden,
a crossed-out hand on the signboard. I want to stroke the
caryatids’ hands, instead I look at them from a distance,
unseen by their calcified pupils. They’re women,
they bear a great deal, but are still not real statues,
just supporting columns. Is looking at them like this touching?