Milord, how beautifully you write!
May I sleep with you tonight?
Till I flag, or when thou wilt,
we'll roll up, drunken in one quilt.
In our poems we forbear
to write of kleenex or long hair
or how the one may fuck the other.
We're serious artists, aren't we, brother?
In our poems, oceans heave
like our stomachs, when we leave
late at night the 14th bar,
I your meteor, you, my star.
When autumn comes, like thistledown
we'll still be floating thru the town,
wildly singing in the haze,
I, past saving, you, past praise.
Who wrote this? Carolyn Kizer?
used with no permission
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