You in your stone home where the sycamore More than I see you sees you, where luck's grass Smoothes your bare feet more often, even your glass Touches your palm and tips to your lips to pour Whatever is in it into you, through which door O moving softness do you just now pass— Your slippers' prows curled, red and old—alas With what soft thought for me, at sea, and sore? Stone of our situation! Iron and stone, Younger as days to years than the house, yet might Wé stare as little haggard with time's roil... Who in each other's arms have lain—lie—one Bites like an animal, both do, pause, and bite, Shudder with joy, kiss... the broad waters boil! Submitted by Holt
Added: 1 Mar 2004 | Last Read: 25 Mar 2017 5:44 AM | Viewed: 3417 times
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