It’s the careful time, the eyelash time,
breeze still as blame,
when the XXX the XXX
come down the narrow track
bent on your name.
You can run till the air you move chills
chaps your soft face
or face the blade and XXX your eye
quick and crisp as a Northern Spy
safe in your grace.
I don't mess with formal poetry much. I want my meter to be either lockstep-rigid or so subtle that only I can find it. Playing with Mister In-Between, as I was doing here, makes me uncomfortable.
I don't know what those missing words are, and that's bad, because the ones in line three are pretty much what the poem is about, if it's about anything.