She's holding something:
a stone globe, chipped in the patterns of continents -
the San Andreas fault here, a rivulet of dust
in the crust of the earth.
Her eyes have no pupils. Well -
I can only guess not, you can't see from here,
she's so far away.
I want to jump up, balance carefully on the ladders
the sun makes,
until I reach her, poised so angelically
on her tower. What would she say?
Get out of the sun. It will harden
you, engender moles on your skin,
until you turn to concrete like me.
I will be here for a hundred years yet,
and you are so mortal, so
beautifully
temporary.