| Alfred Kreymborg, ed. Others for 1919. 1920. | | | | Dorothy | | By Alfred Kreymborg |
| | I
HER EYES
HER eyes hold black whips— | |
| dart of a whip | |
| lashing, nay, flicking, | |
| nay, merely caressing | |
| the hide of a heart— | 5 |
| and a broncho tears through canyons— | |
| walls reverberating, | |
| sluggish streams | |
| shaken to rapids and torrents, | |
| storm destroying | 10 |
| silence and solitude! | |
| Her eyes throw black lariats— | |
| one for his head, | |
| one for his heels— | |
| and the beast lies vanquished— | 15 |
| walls still, | |
| streams still— | |
| except for a tarn, | |
| or is it a pool, | |
| or is it a whirlpool | 20 |
| twitching with memory? | |
| |
II
HER HAIR
Her hair | |
| is a tent | |
| held down by two pegs— | |
| ears, very likely— | 25 |
| where two gypsies— | |
| lips, dull folk call them— | |
| read your soul away: | |
| one promising something, | |
| the other stealing it. | 30 |
| If the pegs would let go— | |
| why is it they’re hidden? | |
| and the tent | |
| blow away—drop away— | |
| like a wig—or a nest— | 35 |
| maybe | |
| you’d escape | |
| paying coin | |
| to gypsies— | |
| maybe— | 40 |
| |
III
HER HANDS
Blue veins | |
| of morning glories— | |
| blue veins | |
| of clouds— | |
| blue veins | 45 |
| bring deep-toned silence | |
| after a storm. | |
| White horns | |
| of morning glories— | |
| white flutes | 50 |
| of clouds— | |
| sextettes hold silence fast, | |
| cup it for aye. | |
| Could I | |
| blow morning glories— | 55 |
| could I | |
| lip clouds— | |
| I’d sound the silence | |
| her hands bring to me. | |
| Had I | 60 |
| the yester sun— | |
| had I | |
| the morrow’s— | |
| brush them like cymbals, | |
| I’d then sound the noise. | 65 |
| |
IV
HER BODY
Her body gleams | |
| like an altar candle— | |
| white in the dark— | |
| and modulates | |
| to voluptuous bronze— | 70 |
| bronze of a sea— | |
| under the flame. | | | | |
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