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.




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