Anne Damer, sculptor, stands on the roof
Of Richard Cosway's house, watching
The Opera House burn; her left arm
Rests on a concrete sphere, gilded
To lool like the Sun; her right hand touches
A statue of Minerva which will speak
If it's in the mood and finds you attractive.
A spark flying across Suffolk Street
Lands in her hand leaving a scar
In the shape of bird in flight. Years later,
Dying, she'll write a will directing
She be buried with a mallet, the bones
Of her favorite dog, an apron
And a selection of new-sharpened chisels.
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