Gosh

Gosh you’re beautiful to 
Me most mornings I 
Think that I’m waking 
Up in the studio 
Of Michelangelo or Rodin
On some divan staring 
At his latest model 
I run my hand 
Across your obsidian flank
Tracing like a child 
Staying within the lines
Over and down like 
A sled filled with 
Curiosity only to land 
Amidst the trees of 
Eyelashes which shake and 
Drop their own sleepiness 
Finally lips meeting mine 
Tasting the cool crispness 
Of my Alpine stream