by Frances Corkey Thompson

Even Michelangelo made, maybe, the odd slip. 
To chip, say, a cheek, brought some student girl or boy
with a fingertip of beeswax, smoothing it in, 
soothing with marble dust, polishing to a finish. 
But a work perfection in completion 
without wax, was sin cera. Sincere.

In High-Dependency, I cushioned your hushed white foot
until the beat gurgled back, and ankle, instep, and finally all five toes
glowed roseate, and they took you away
to the sculptors of bypass and artery. 
Never was a foot so beautiful, or sincerity so chill, 
my warming, healing love.