1.
Throw open your salmon colored shirt,
you come bearing a tray full of burning candles
to illuminate those firm and
pendulous breasts with nipples of dark aspic.
Young motherhood agrees with you!
Come bearing your tray brimming with
candle light
and as you find your mark let the camera find your sweet
and cheerful face
O, beauty! O, joy! Let this be
a long and simple scene
come bearing candles and who cares of
a continuing story --
Young mother-
hood, love, and
light!
2.
He lay down beside a curl of her hair
to enlarge her smile
in the soft grass
he lay down at the foot of a curl
to see her smile big as the
sky
Love me, he said.
It was her sky
but he wasn’t there
If he wasn’t
there
then who was there in her hair
laying in the grass looking at her smile?
Not I, me lord! Not I!
If not you, who then?
Me, I was mostly sleeping.
A corner of a pillow
in my hand.
A fluted column,
a glass of champaign
as we were happy to have been catching
the wind.
Did he call after you as you went?
Under the sign of the inn:
“Fare thee well, son of mine!”
But going hence I then doubled back. Knowing it would not be in
the script, it was as far as a voice could humanly go,
possessed by the song of the desert,
the mournful appeal of the mezzo forte calling
the prayerful to rhyme. But in
my sandaled feet, and carefree,
a shepherd with his pipe piping I went. Happy
was my song.
It was not in Russian, it was
not in Japanese
Throw open your salmon colored shirt,
you come bearing a tray full of burning candles
to illuminate those firm and
pendulous breasts with nipples of dark aspic.
Young motherhood agrees with you!
Come bearing your tray brimming with
candle light
and as you find your mark let the camera find your sweet
and cheerful face
O, beauty! O, joy! Let this be
a long and simple scene
come bearing candles and who cares of
a continuing story --
Young mother-
hood, love, and
light!
2.
He lay down beside a curl of her hair
to enlarge her smile
in the soft grass
he lay down at the foot of a curl
to see her smile big as the
sky
Love me, he said.
It was her sky
but he wasn’t there
If he wasn’t
there
then who was there in her hair
laying in the grass looking at her smile?
Not I, me lord! Not I!
If not you, who then?
Me, I was mostly sleeping.
A corner of a pillow
in my hand.
A fluted column,
a glass of champaign
as we were happy to have been catching
the wind.
Did he call after you as you went?
Under the sign of the inn:
“Fare thee well, son of mine!”
But going hence I then doubled back. Knowing it would not be in
the script, it was as far as a voice could humanly go,
possessed by the song of the desert,
the mournful appeal of the mezzo forte calling
the prayerful to rhyme. But in
my sandaled feet, and carefree,
a shepherd with his pipe piping I went. Happy
was my song.
It was not in Russian, it was
not in Japanese
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