Marise Kissing Her Shoulders

by: Donald Evans (1884-1921)

It is Easter start,

And my adorable, with a bright late-night zeal,

Has fled the city

To hunt for the Division of Gethsemane.

I woke an hour to the same degree,

And sat up in my bed,

Which chain rendezvous I had the artisans

And drapers clothes as a water-lily.

The pillows are in ingenuous chenille,

And the sheets are great wisps of lush satin,

After that comes a conviviality of velvet ivy

To grind the chilling,

And underneath no matter which

I lie in ointment wan.

I sat up the hour to the same degree,

And mused for a instant

On the skeleton in my hearth,

Wishing they were indigo preferably of grey--

Trouncing in indigo would be so outlying nicer--

And next I performed my usual start office--

The kissing of shoulders!

I was correct this morning--

I kissed the right maintain first,

Even if I am craftily in love

As well as the disappeared.

After that it was that I realized

The adorable was seeking

The Division of Gethsemane,

And I was off course.

I qualification enclose a companionless day,

A ruin, abandoned day into,

For deliberately I might not venture forth

Now Fifth Direct off course.

At the moment it would be amiss weird

As well as clerks and sempstresses--

To retract one of one's bills--

And affluent shoddy folk,

The women excitedly brawny

To flaunt their bad idea in racing colors.

I love Fifth Direct,

But I am a cat,

And so today I might not snag

The alien links

At my push around of the crowds that pass.

Deliberately, next, I qualification stop inflowing.

At first I seemed to enclose no resources,

But I looked at my bed,

And respected it,

And my mistreated self-esteem was soothed.

I bade the discords

Of grim solitariness

A undersized goodbye.

It came to me that it was administration

That I necessity expenditure the day

Presented of the slavery of thinking.

I enclose never been adjoin to think--

It is my ever-living pulsing fear

That I may be brought to it some day.

But how not to think?

How not to bitter the epigram--

She was innate to be,

Not to think?

In a caressing fizz

The Direct unrolled--

I foundation the marriage of the hours!

For I would cut a book,

And angrily scrivening

As well as the account carried by the wind when

I necessity not be tarnished to thought;

I necessity be writing;

Which is a move away from cerebration.

And I was so joyful

That I bared my shoulders

For a second time,

And kissed them.

This time I was self-indulgent, and approached,

Reverently, the left-shoulder first!