I turn you on a mental wheel,
Where memory and fantasy
Are blended into moving form,
And with my sculpting hands, there feel
Your beauty hidden quietly
Beneath the living flesh, too warm
To call my own. And my desire
For you, some other you, despairs
That I both loathe and love it when
You writhe and squirm with restless fire:
For, Galatea, all my cares
Are vain to make you stone again.
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