Forgive the roughness of these working hands
(if pulses gallop merely by our speaking)
uncouthly resting in your perfumed hair.
Could such fingers, daily torn by steel,
be allowed to comb through scented tresses?
And should the hardened hand that writes this verse
rest upon your shoulder for a time,
whilst these lips that bear their childhood scars
meet your mouth to cease our futile talking?
Would your breasts allow my aching palms
serenity to feel your trembling heart?
And if scarred lips then followed those rough palms
would I feel your hand embrace my head?

To rest a kiss upon each inner thigh,
before you let me taste of your sweet bounty,
I'd shoulder crosses and be crucified
time and life and time and life again.

Forgive the roughness of these working hands,
the fingertips of which yearn nothing more
than intimacy with your sacred hollow;
forgive the working of unworthy hands.