Portrait Number Five: Against A New York Summer
I'd walk her home after work
buying roses and talking of Bechsteins.
She was full of soul.
Her small room was gorged with heat
and there were no windows.
She'd take off everything
but her pants
and take the pins from her hair
throwing them on the floor
with a great noise.
We wouldn't make love.
She'd get on the bed
with those nipples
and we'd lie
and talking of my best friend.
They were in love.
When I got quiet
she'd put on usually Debussy
leaning down to the small ribs
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(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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Edgar Allan Poe
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