like a marble statue
in the art museum for
all to fawn over it. It does not
dawn on man that it can

not walk or even stand. It
sits encased by rope. Man cannot
touch the chiseled face. He moves on
like the black ink night. A silhouette

in the morning light streaks
her honey hair through his
bedroom window. Silence sits
low as the floorboards that creak

underneath the old man's
feet.  It squeaks like the mice
inside his walls. He does
not see them but hears them crawl.