It is time for one more poem,
Even though the candle is low,
But just because she is singing,
And I should drink more beer.
Do you think I am speaking?
Guided by an instinct,
Flying on the wings of trope,
A garden most decidedly of vines
That perch their sounds for an infinite
Grape, squeezed to intoxication
Guided by muscles and beer,
Whose sweats and sweets
Are beading the necklace
Strung over my thought,
I would feel the chest that weaves like a basket
To hold you incredibly thoughtless
As God climbs the city (who says a screen
Cannot be Japanese and hide the legs
Of beautiful ladies?)...
Your eyes will be the globe
When the shirt comes off and the clothes
Lie scattered across the carpet,
The floor's own premonition of desire
For which it spreads as my arms spread
Across your bed.
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