Dear Reader,
This is the final quarter of an Ode for a Woman—a longer poem I wrote for a Someone I sometimes see. Unfortunately, I misplaced the first three-quarters while high on plum-wine and cannabis w/ lavender & rose petals (handwritten: they blew away in an evening wind). I do not know that I will try to reclaim what was lost, and so I am sharing this with you now. I hope it is sufficient.
— wb
[...] —ass worship aside also I enjoy Your mouth in all the ecstasy of Your mad syllables when You spout at me the glories of Your passion— Too do I can't ignore that dire aspect of Your gaze when it levels my groin with the soaking feeling of the sand at the tide's pinnacle—also wanting sea. I enjoy then to hear how You would eat me, how You would sanctify the grounds of my Love, and how You might inject in me the politest disquiet. But then isn't there Your bosom, too, that I love? O, but forgive me—I think there so many glories that I've only now realized I ought to have broken this up into poems for each portion of You— I ought to have given You my passion in pieces that You would have wanted and wanted me. For: then, of course, is there the pretty smirk of You knowing what You've done and can do to me after-before: Your cruel kind power is a delight to me. But I am senseless sometimes around You because there is only so much time for loving and loving takes up so much— Listing the ways You have sundered me, exhaustive could I be like Cohen—madness overwhelms me: delirious clay chattering away like a tiny dog— If I could sing for the effort of Your giving, if I could give You the invitation of Your own love, only then would You know what this means to me. But after it all, You have curled into me and rested and I have cherished Your sleep like breath and water and so Your soft snore is enough to satisfy my meaning: I love you.