Your Grace

Raphael (1483-1520)

Three Graces (1503–1505)

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If the sun touches you before I do,

If the air enters you before I do,

Know that you are only dreaming

In my arms, after our boudoir waltz.

I unveil you—

A fervor rises from in-between,

Taking you in

In one fell swoop:

My skin, your skin, weaving eternity.

Pale feet, barely making a ripple,

Up a pair of delicate flute glasses; 

Thighs where strength convenes,

Hills where form and beauty meets.

Clouds gather at the basin of your stomach,

I drink like gods with their grapes, 

Your bosom cupped in hand, with only tenderness. 

What strange eyes you have, 

Twinkling with stories and innocence, 

Scintillating like poetry on water;

A constellation of white: budding, blossoming, blooming.

Demure this second, curious another, 

As though conferring immortality in one bite—

Pulling back your fingers, only to hold mine. 

Darling, darling, 

No need for velvet dreams—

You   are the apple of my eye.