— 10 —
Drunk we go forward surely
Not I
beds, beds, beds
elevators, fruit, night-tables
breasts to see, white and blue—
to hold in the hand, to nozzle
It is not onion soup
Your sobs soaked through the walls
breaking the hospital to pieces
Everything
—windows, chairs
obscenely drunk, spinning—
while blue, orange
—hot with our passion
wild tears, desperate rejoinders
my legs, turning slowly
end over end in the air I
But what would you have?
All I said was:
there, you see, it is broken
stockings, shoes, hairpins
your bed, I wrapped myself round you—
