The Art of Idolatry

Lens baby,
I croon to you.

The silence of the blur
I allow to cloak your shoulders
pleases me.

You know I’m only
gilding the lily.

These fingertips of light
stroking your bone structure.
Your perfect brow.

In that split second of breath
your lashes dip.

The fluidity of gender
neutrality, the runnels
of gold that touch the cupid’s bow

Like I do.
Midas. Midas.