The David

The stone hair is soft
like his eyelashes, 
if they too could be
carved.

He focuses 
on a white wall—
on the psalm 
he cannot write.

He wishes for strands
of marble, like
spider’s legs,
around his staring

eyes.  Then he may
blink Goliath out 
of the crowd surveilling
his flesh.  They watch  

as he lifts his left
foot and begins
the march into his
own shadow.