I knew the shoulder’s anatomy;

how it worked on curves, the joint’s smooth rig,

the elegant roll of the pulley

that preceded Newton’s boltless bridge.

I had focused on the eyes though,

or the places love can act

with the lights out, where the smile

is like a curtain drawing back.

Perhaps it’s simply that until your shoulders shone

last night when you wore that dress

that was a chalky halo draped around your chest,

their skin so young, a field unsown,

a God unphotographed, lost continents from lore –

I had never realised how beautiful your shoulders were before.