It might have been a little different, your hair auburn or brown, longish, torn about by a rip-wind, high tide, the muffled pounding deafening, an explosion in a pillow emblazoned on my face like a like a lie invading a smile blood coming in on a northeaster, our steamy souls destined for the plates of gods, an indestructible hour of suffering like gods after they have eaten and been surprised by their slaves and skewered screaming "history now" "destiny now" everyone wanting a little quiet in the end, a kind of reserve following the buck and resound of our finally pouring our hearts out, our wharf rats and moon slag hosed down for white space which regrets nothing is not guilty and reprimands the violets we hydrate by whispers by real feelings by tears, showering a desert on eternity | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNET: 29 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE THE MAID OF ARC; FOR M. S. M. by GORDON BOTTOMLEY LINES WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT DURING A THUNDER-STORM by ELIZABETH CARTER EUTHANASIA by WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK A SLEEPING CHILD by ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH LINES UNDER A SUN-DIAL IN THE CHURCH-YARD AT THORNEY by NATHANIEL COTTON |