Atelier Home Parthenon

The studio has long been left
to blankets of dust
on the crumbling statuary: my easel,
your bathrobe, the hunchback lamp.
There was a time two goddesses
came here for worship.

It was easy to see you then,
poised and posed, sore from stillness.
I saw and adored all of you.

I do not go back anymore.
My brushes are silent, dry from disuse.
I imagine you drape your seraphic limbs
across someone else's understuffed divan,
and I am glad of it, truly;
you bear the adoration and the arguments both with grace.

But I have not yet found a new temple,
so it is in the streets
that I kneel and chant in search of a name.