The first has been decapitated. Her eyes severe, colour gone, could stare out seas or deserts, but instead gaze over a sliproad to the retail park. This one's legs, which your current squeeze poses inbetween for a photo, digital, not polaroid, are still shapely despite the mould. That one's almost still whole, I think she holds a discus, or is it chips? She's too far away. That one, the short one, her pointing wrist now buried in the ground holds up just her head and torso, like a broken breakdancer. One with a bob hefts a thick book, and longingly surveys a flat on the run-down blocks. Drizzle hunts your eye from some far-up granite rill. The martial one looks up and out for planes, will never meet your gaze, and the one you always overlook is just an unsmiling bust. Strange, what you must now pay to see what was once immanent. Your current's in the gift shop, so your artist's eye can't size her up. Suns set. Atoms swap. The porphyry, pumice, basalt strain to remember lust.