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looking up saints who share your name
only to find bernini has already given them
so much horror and so much ecstasy
really emphasises the stone in which i set you
last thursday night the faint stickiness of the
pear cider on your venetian blinds and
the gothic resolution of your face.
no wonder we british never excelled at sculpture
until henry moore came along yet
even after seeing his tate
retrospective last summer
all i wanted to do was
go get a sandwich.