In the mist,
By the window; lays a thoughtful Jezebel,
There is a reason; bland digestion,
In the quarry concise catering
To any treason; to any tow, any tailored talesworth thinker.
She is a giver; she is a mistress; in the womb she swells of syrup,
Might be narrow; might be tight, even in the thinnest flesh, dear.
Sight of fasting; yet she’s peering,
Piles of garments on the bedside.
I’m an object- clothed in human; gently rubbing westward gleaming,
Hark the handsome,
Hark the holder,
Here to stay beneath these covers; warm and quiet; shy and wanting,
By the quilt in parting olives; never must I leave this moonlight,
Here I must feel times of cherish.