the subway poems : Botticelli skin

For a moment in a lifetime
our corpses became statues
in the Louvre, poised besides
Parisian porcelain, smooth and polished,
like Botticelli skin.

I see you, in this sea of rooms,
shining like a pearl and adorned
with pale innocence.
Think of me, as Géricault
seeking death
resolutely in love caverns
by the Seine.