To have peeled back the sanguine face
The feat of passive genius now replaced
The strident stars succumbed to youthful grace
In half-scanned scalpels hot to nature’s plate.
What led remorseful pupils to their peak
Advanced the vitreous pleasure of the weak
Who came to see if fingers felt the deep
Or flayed the traps of buccal masterpiece.
The quiet ear, contemptuous mouth,
The germinal expectation of a pout;
To bury, raise the film of skin to doubt
The striated base of spirited clout.
The lonesome lid, a smile that had once been
By thrilling Thanatos reduced to grin
At throves of lingering hands that hope to win
The honorable discharge akin to sin.
To have experienced the hanging fruit
Or relished what becomes of keeping mute
He or I, enveloped in surprise
Of which had had the knife drawn to the eye.