I have to act “carnal love” and I pick an imaginary knife,
Cut flesh off only I know who,
Put it in a pile and kneel to put my hand on it.
She has to do “art”.
Takes my meat and makes a statue of it,
Piece after piece, she shapes legs, chest, skin, ears,
The joints and the tendons,
Just the right neck, the hair, the surprised lips.
Then she takes a step back. “No”, I hear, and she smashes it.
