by Felix Jung

I should have been a sculptor, shaping stone
until it feels as smooth as muscled flesh.
What better work can possibly survive me?

Poets have it wrong: all language changes,
ink dissolves, all paper fades the instant
sunlight finds its skin. A hammer, chisel,

candlelight: I’ll carve a monument, a statue
for the world. I’ll make us someone we can fall
in love with, someone who will never leave.

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