bit of that

Anonymous Poet Sometimes I would see her with her lovers walking through the Village, the wind strapped about her ankles. Simply being, she fought against the enemies of love and poetry like Achilles in wrath. Her tongue was not a lake, but it lifted her lovers with the gentle strength of a lake that lifts a cove of waterlilies— her blue eyes, the sky above them— till night fell and the mysteries began. My friend I love, poet I love, if you are not reading or writing tonight on your Underwood typewriter, if no one is kissing you, death is real. -Stanley Moss