Here, in this white screen,
you are orange against yellow,
a David of Michaelango
Your arms and you, dangling
amongst the piles of your clothes
A wingless angel.
and it would seem like you were-
the last of your kind
or the last one with black hair
grown only
under your homeland’s night heavens
Your heat warms Canadian walls
enclosing you,
you are the red of the maple
and you sway like one,
lost in the foreign land of your birth
but still as your petrified self,
you stand, each time I look
For you are a David of Michaelango,
your gaze is as sharp
as the chisels that made you
and your beauty,
impenetrable and hard
as your marble flesh
Your heart, vaulted by layers
and years of change ,
now unreachable as your body,
thousands of miles away
and here,
trapped in a box -
of light, plastic and glass.
