On Beauty

What of the eye whose blade
Cuts a hard swathe then cannot look away?
Or the archaic Attic arm
That gave it dimension, expression, immortality?
Is every stone vulnerable?
In the mind the form so fixed
The base block cannot conceal it?
The eye feasts, is commanded by the lust
Demands we march toward the trust
Meld the flesh until it blooms.
Desire like a beast gorges on the symmetry,
Leaves its ancient mark along the swollen belly.
The eye rejoices in the linear blood.
Look: the new thing emerges
Fatted on its shadow.

© Rhett Talley