On white glass

she mimicks my movements

her form is angular, 

turgid, carved from ivory

and recarved, crudely this time

Reflected back to me

on muslin in oil

her form is round and soft

like it was once when she was

comfortable being held 

she wears a naivety

only awarded to permanent

beauties yet she feels 

alive flesh and blood

Like I could reach out and

fall into her world

become her