In the dictionary of sapphires
Only the rain confesses its regrets.
Even the Venetian courtier asleep
At the end of the bed forgets
The naked jewels at his fingertips.
Still, in our own prosaic silence
Even a simple breath upon the ear
Is a kind of violence.
Then, beyond the facets of sex,
Level as moonlight, some lost aspect
Of solitude touches your shoulders,
Still bare & glistening with sweat,
The soft white of new ice & fragile as air;
& so I know I must take care.