love could experimentwith her two bodiescould discover the way of milkcoming into the breastscould invent tastesor find a way to ferment a kisslike a poet who never sawa heart at rest
in the book of the bodyis there no other writing true as romancewhich is true and which falseof two children perfectly madejoined at their belliesand only one pair of legswhat work will make us fearthe consequence of ithow is holding youso large a music
a bad night for fleasthe weather cold as winterall over my bodythe poor go out only on Sundaysgood-natured about the privileges of powerto itch and tick and eatat any time
love is fallen upon melike cutting down a treeto make better lightwith my whole bodyI appease my desireto be nobodybut I see how fanatic tenantswould garden on so little groundbeing almost starved
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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