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It has been overcast in Manhattan for four days I do not run, it may rain, I turn to books The way I might have, a year ago, turned to a lover and held her Last night I sat and drank in the Ding Dong Smoking cigarettes with a Finnish woman Large breasts, tattoos, body full, hair in two buns Pink ribbons She wanted to love in broken English, I did not take her home
I could have lay in this empty bed this morning The Bronx overcast, misty beyond, and held her, reading aloud When she asked What is...volutpuous I would have held her right breast firmly and said Not this And loosened my grip to a caress But this And rolled between her pearl legs and been Voluptuous to her again The book trailing under our bodies to be rumpled
Make sense of this all The overcast Her Finnish voice menacing and tender and lonesome Her skinm tattoos, my books This reticence to accept A woman dead in Georgia at 30 (31?) Incense burning in the corner An invisible city My best friend's woman, whom I want to take in my arms A Puerto Rican mother killing herself with cancer in Kansas City Her daughter hating me in silence
The edifice of the University rumbles to life across the street On the shelves the ancient characters are silent except to me "What does mean," she askes "This is not true 'of'?" It is the genitive use - it means "concerning," "belonging to" The quality belongs to the thing If she understood I would only know By touching words "Like this," she holds her right breast lightly, "This is 'of' voluptuous?" ------------------------------ Something like Eldridge Cleaver meets John Lennon
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