Laurence Vail

I AM weary, unto desire of death,

Of the thought fretting in my body,

Of the body wrapped round my thought.

They go—

The curious panting creatures I would be—

Along the grey crust of the street.

I would be fused into her—

Girl going whither I know not!

I would have her shrill eager breasts—

Gusts of storm driving the sail of her blouse;

Her round polished knees, rising, moving like pendulums—

Engines urging the sail of her skirt;

Her sharp bird-like head cleaving the sail of the wind.

I would have the curious blood of her,

I would have her dream.

I would be fused into him—

Child carried in the arms of a mother,

Child carried whither he knows not!—

I would have the gurgling mirth

Emanating from gay-colored baubles;

The shiver, the sweat and the nightmare

Emanating from dark wrangling shadows:

I would have his untinted history,

And the hunger

To seize the whole world by the mouth.

I would be fused into anyone going new ways.