Incurable Malady

Facing the Duchamp
The lady with the miss-marked face
Is changing sex, taking up chess,

In your infrastructure,
On the pedestal on which you stand.

Holding it there in the reflection
Where the painting should be without glass,

I have you ready to dissolve
Inebriating my soul

To give back, and build me up,
In the line of the distinction
Blurred. In your silence.
And my appliance. You hold me,
Uncomfortably,
As I breathe in your breath,
That's left behind.