Lovestuck

I jog to the Borghese Gardens,
pass the zoo’s furless creatures
bound up the steps
to Cardinal Scipione's Galleria,
catch a glimpse
of the Bernini sculptures
assuming their positions
on pedestals
in time to gape
at us studying them.
They return breathless
after a bacchanalian feast,
careful not to stain
their marble bodies with blood rich wine.
I imagine Apollo rushing Daphne
who will never be caught
in her desire to stay pure and free.
Like nosey neighbors,
the figures follow the drama,
throw their heads back,
recall yesterday's spectators
peering up Apollo's crotch
wrapped by Daphne's fingers
metamorphosed into laurel leaves
that clutch the warmest part
of his smooth, marble body
staking her claim forever.