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— 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
