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Maxwell Bodenheim Poems : Your Arms, in Faltering Crescendos
Your arms, in faltering crescendos,
Wander through the room
Tinted with expectation of night.
The room seems a tottering tomb
Through which you roam with hands
Striving to press each form into the shape
Of someone buried beneath you. . . .
Only when night sprays the room with his breath
Do you change to that which you seek.
Wander through the room
Tinted with expectation of night.
The room seems a tottering tomb
Through which you roam with hands
Striving to press each form into the shape
Of someone buried beneath you. . . .
Only when night sprays the room with his breath
Do you change to that which you seek.
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sábado, maio 14, 2011 - 14:42
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Maxwell Bodenheim
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