From a preview of a Walt Whitman piece I’m working on….
I believe in you my soul…and the other I am must not abuse itself to you,
and you must not be abased to the other.
Loafe with me on the grass…loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music, or rhyme I want…not custom or lecture,
not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
I mind how we lay in June, such a transparent summer morning;
You settled your head athwart my hips and gently turned over
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my barestript heart,
And reached till you felt my beard, and reached till you held my feet.
The barestript heart, the barestript heart, and loosing the stop from the throat.
I’ve read it a million times, and still the emotions it provokes within me are so powerful that I cannot stand it. Why does it feel like pain?
I’ll chicken out and take this down.