Curator

Down familiar curves of the museum,
extinct footsteps echo from two galleries away.
Some days, our travertine floor
sings only for my wingtip shoes
as we waltz around your pedestal.

Your gypsum face won't smile,
but your lips touch softly as flesh.
The white folds of your dress, carved
onto your skin, may not change
with the seasons, but your beauty
is as rare as the day I met you.
You are my alabaster empress—
though you bend the hairs on my arms with sight,
I can feel you like a bird feels a shadow.