Those circles beneath your eyes
like bruises; those lips that rise
subtle as the Mona Lisa smiles-
a disappointed mystery.
Who doesn't love the ringlets
dancing off your neck? What
star's beauty suffers from a lack
of pleasure?
For miracles, alone, I stop to
ponder how the light reflects,
cast back, regressed and shining
on your blessed face.
If sadness sketched is loneliness,
if where you look, my heart must
follow; there is rapture in my body-
there is rapture.
