That shoulder.

That shoulder. An erotic thing submerg in duration.

Her hands are entangled in undone plaits of r hair

So thick that, combed, it-pulls, the head down,

A thigh, and in a less degree than it the foot of another leg

For she is sitting, her bent knee lay open

And the movement of her arm reveals the shape of a breast.

Here undoubtedly. In a hundred years a year

That have vanished entirely. to what degree to reach her?

And in what manner to reach the other in her golden robe?

She puts onward mascara, humming a song.

The third lies forward the bed, smokes a cigarette,

And turn the thoughtss through a fashion journal. Her muslin shirt

Show a white roundnes and pinkish nipples.

The painter's hat hangs in succession the entresol

With their dresse He liked to stay here, chatting,

Sketching. Our human communion has a bitter taste

Because of the familiarity of touch, of avid lips,

The shape of loins, and talk of an immortal vital principle

It flows and desists A wave, a sighing of breakers

And only a r mane flickered in the abyss.

...

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