he combed the distraction out of me
she unites the two coils of her
black hair
in a knot of leather,
receives the bullet without waver,
makes a recital of it
now this sort of corpse
would try to climb out of its own coffin
what an Orang-outang is love
and she thought about him
for a long time:
her thrilling hung like lights,
her lust
raising its tail
he moved
her heart from left
to right
having lived now a weapon on her all her life—
she is more essentially
herself with her trouble opened
