«Petals of wide-parted, childlike-moist lips, / Now gone to numbness and pursed full of chill, / While the ballroom floats on, and its sounds ever spill / Over long grievous longings that raptures eclipse. The mirrors in undulance, chandeliers’ gleam / Meld to form crystalline ghostly mira...»
«Night. Street. Lamplight. Pharmacy. / A dim senseless glow all about. / Live twenty more years, look around, what’s to see? / Nothing will change. No way out. Then die — and all begins over to breathe and to be, / And the same bleary haze hovers over the damp / Night, icy ripples...»
«The day will come; I’ll disappear, / While in this selfsame empty room, / That table, bench, icon austere / The same contours of space consume. And just as now will flutter in / That silken butterfly serene, / To rustle, palpitate and ding / Against the ceiling’s bluish-green. And ...»
«I’m glad that you’re not indisposed with feelings steeped in me. / I’m glad that I’m not indisposed with feelings steeped in you. / That never will earth’s gravid sphere float free / Beneath our giddy footsteps specked with dew. / I’m glad that we can laugh capriciously, / Ligh...»