Sculpting with the Gods

A leaky faucet.
I wrap my hands around it.
The moment seeps out
through my suspicions.
I clench my fists and
try to contain it.
It still drips.

A flush of rose - a shade of ivy,
entangle to form a gray.
Concrete gray.
A conglomerate sludge, flowing
like half-hardened lava - turning black.

Too thick to pass through
the holes in the
drain, it collects.

With the impending eruption
beneath my palms, I feel Apollo
forming around my left pinky.
I glance down to find Daphne's bark hardening
like basalt in the sun's reflection. He quickly
brushes the leaves from her breast
to feel her warm heart
still beating underneath--

sculpting a miniature Bernini.
My own rigid entanglement
to divine upon, until times end.