An Eke to a Day in France

There is the structure, up ahead,
The deft I-miss-you-more-than-I-can-say arrangement
In classical form, forced into marbles
I see Psyche and Love ravishing
Her, and You, and Soft Venuses, and a satyr.
Mercury, also, carrying Psyche away, a sniff
And the immediate allergen is pretty much you
Not being here. I wish I knew why itches hurt

When I summoned you out of my current surroundings:
the Sacre Coeur, bent-out-of-shape windowbox holders,
the bagged statuary at Versailles and everything else we brought
Just take the note and hit it. Hold it whole if possible.

Try to make that look while
Skype staggers with your beloved’s pixels.
You’d like to seem more
but I don’t want you to worry about keeping the faith:
breathe in in the manner proper to one.
Soon it will all be nouns
And I a concrete angel’s son