When exactly did ivy begin crawling
up my distinguished stone skin? When, exactly,
did I decide my skin was best cloaked
in stone-grey? I swear that my skin once shined

like fresh copper—in 2002, maybe, a pool party
at my Greek friend George’s house thrown
because he was moving away, to Georgia, funnily
and sadly, though I didn’t know so then.

On Princeton’s campus is a copper statue
wearing the verdigris of historicity.
But look at the the plinth: the figure
was established in 1993, the patina painted,

artifice to be washed away in drops of sincerity.
A statue of reversed temporality, to one day shine alive.