feels good reading whitman reading nietzsche reading christ and feeling cool between the pages of neat words how many songs of myself there is sung how many days of summer spent inside quiet and dark dark inside quiet and summer to put my teeth in and roll over the tongue the tense dew of youth and drink the pollen of easy flowers.

(to be where you are amongst your neck and your shoulders feeling needfully hunched and youthfuly broken )

to break and to be broken by–

upon rocks
upon skittering
coils of noonlight–

(the trees mark it there is a path very deeply within them

where there is cool and etherized
by curls around of night smoke)

But all that wants to be
to be inside
(to taste)
and to meet with

the uncertain darkness
of life:

girl hips, 2 in the morning, the ocean

poem,

              


                  i
                   t






seems to
bright seems to
trill with–

poem and
a little song;

often and curiously to struggle beneath
the wide sound of its voice:

its own letter,

its own verse.

each eye precise;
each eye cut with
the dull rub of
sharp blackness

(eats the skin overunder)

the pale chip of cheeks
peppered and kissed
with freckles the mute
bruise of youth and
21 years of girlness

(it smooth lips rubs over the teeth
and says,

        "I really like your tattoos."

i love you there is
something undark

more

unseemingly possible
to speak which
makes your soul–

it the
noose which
hangs by all the nights and days

to be rough
to be wholly of
hard and unhard made;

it want it to touch
(as inside touches)

each small and trembling
****** of me;

and i want it to feel
(as valkyries feel)

hurt beautiful ugly and strong.

"You've done a lot of terrible **** to me."


"Oh really, like what?"
















"Telling me you love me."

3 loves because
you are not one body
single hands or
two lips only;

you are(perhaps)

a multitude.

perhaps a gallon o
of incredulous which
i become by

each tremendous
drove of your hips
that eat like snow

my figure to become still.

more still than to live and that
i shall lay forever as a flake as like
to melt upon and be the new old soil
between each pressed sole of boys and girls
in love they make the curious racket

of life. i would like to make in you
before turns my hands to ash and
not even one of your bodies

can h(old

"Because nobody really loves anyone.

       We love the idea of the person.

                        The actual person

                                  just gets

                                     in the

                                       wa

                                        y

                                          ."