Reverse Shakespearean Sonnet

A bowl unshatters, whole. A column’s spidered
fissures kiss together, and they die.

I don’t know how to love without effacement.
My selfhood must be made of softer stone.
In any case, these questions help me suffer my encasement
until a face unchips itself from marble white as bone.

No, my flesh unstatued—omen
of the end of grace—will not be posed
the paradox of sex or lasting union,
but the dream of it, I need. I am (of course) supposed
to terrify, portend the earthwide slaughter.
Instead I think I’ll just enjoy my limbs, my lungs, my pulse.
Barefoot, I’ll run through grass and maybe find a bit of water
in which to stand and watch the stars convulse.