The old forms are still there, but look closely.
Aphrodite, cast in plaster and gold leaf
lies on a dusty backroom shelf  in a back-country store.

Born from waves; whisper
a prayer in her shell-like. She will hear,
though ears on Olympus are not what they were.
Currency is slack; the sapphire-robed lady walks
unattended in empty stone halls.

Yet the hazed horizon still speaks strong blue tones
and in it she can still appear, sea-crowned
with pearls and pink-lipped conchshells;
Sweeping waves steadily, hush, hush,
shushing the lulling droves at the shore.

The forms will re-crystallise, given the proper awe.
the old ones still drift on etheric ships, deep in Jungian groves.