eternity in her hips

a century ago
she walked across the room
in that same black and white dress
those same haunting hips
swaying like an elephant

echoing are the thoughts of art
and understanding
the brief glimpses of inspirational spasm
while you're there lying on your back
in a field of carpet
with the lights out in your apartment
and the stereo hammering hip hop you've never
heard before.

Under you is the same earth
that held her feet.
The same earth that drank up
all the blood of a billion men.
The clay and the rock
that has seen and heard it all
and no longer needs inspiration
to exist.

it sees the bigger picture
this old egg.
we swim around inside of it
trying to impregnate our ideas
with motivation.

but whatever happened
to the gentle sway of a stranger
and the gray of her eyes
as she looks at the floor
then up to yours?