For My Juliet

A softer face to brush Egyptian linen,
A sylph, your bas-relief for hours remains;
My hand, which begs no fetters to restrain—
I suffer my fingers to trace this sloping omen.

A touch, a grace, a gossamer kiss of woman,
Your nails with their lacquer my sides stain;
A laugh to bubble up from golden champagne,
A virginal Mary offers her "Amen."

I sight the face into the sheets engraven,
A muscle twitch, a stroke against the grain—
The tracing digit gashing your terrain—
A wrinkle gouging out your indentation—
A loosening nail snags the loosening reim;

The pain is sharp and agony enough.