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The cook had one wall eye and couldn't sleep, she was so nervous.

feather and rose.

They bow and stand: they suffer such attacks!

And I was scared, because she was shaped just the way I was Only much whiter and unbreakable and with no complaints.

Of a rose close when the garden Stiffens and odors bleed

Wears purple, steps carefully

And how a god flimsy as a baby's finger

She spoke most chiding in his ear

White with pink flowers on it, With excessive love I enameled it

The nude Verdigris of the condor.

They're out of the dark's ragbag, these two

I am left with an arm or a leg, A set of teeth, or stones To rattle in a bottle and take home,

As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.

I may be a bit of a Jew.

The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.

His soul may beat and be beating at her dull sense

The loneliness of its eye, the eye of the mountains Through which the sky eternally threads itself? The world is blood-hot and personal

This is the time of hanging on for the bees—the bees So slow I hardly know them,

O I was sick.

I gave her a soul, I bloomed out of her as a rose Blooms out of a vase of not very valuable porcelain, And it was I who attracted everybody's attention,