Liz Waldner

Though the radical humour contain in it oil for seventy...

I can but plea, it seems; how this goes hard upon me—
Green (the skin of the earth) sward—one word—
I would feel and make you feel. Can no woman
Live well once but that she could live twice?
Splice me—so am I a Child. May I twice be
And thus worthy of her knees. For I am upon them
In my heart where I am scabbed (and superannuate)
From wanting in. In wanting in is how she prays
Some more. (and annotates.) (and waits.)
In my warm blood and Canicular
Days—How can you not kiss me? I have but forty
Seconds used; twenty to my lips remain since an auricular
Circumspection sold me short—my compunction
Cut me—short—

Here the grass a paler green beneath is where I lay beside you
Where the trees' eyes wept the little sounds I heard inside you
Now the knees erase the trace of these with the skin to be denied you
Address, redress, dress me up and down and in "We all therein
Become but Pantalones to my severer contemplation…"

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