1 min read
Слушать(AI)Evening Song
Full moon rising on the waters of my heart,
Lakes and moon and fires,
Cloine tires,
Holding her lips apart.
Promises of slumber leaving shore to charm the moon,
Miracle made vesper-keeps,
Cloine sleeps,
And I'll be sleeping soon.
Cloine, curled like the sleepy waters where the moonwaves start,
Radiant, resplendently she gleams,
Cloine dreams,
Lips pressed against my heart.
Jean Toomer
Jean Toomer (born Nathan Pinchback Toomer, December 26, 1894 – March 30, 1967) was an American poet and novelist commonly associated with the Ha
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
Her Lips Are Copper Wire
whisper of yellow globesgleaming on lamp-posts that swaylike bootleg licker drinkers in the fogand let your breath be moist against melike bright beads on yellow globestelephone the power-housethat the main wires are insulate(her words play softly...
Tell Me
Tell me, dear beauty of the dusk, When purple ribbons bind the hill, Do dreams your secret wish fulfill, Do prayers, like kernels from the
Georgia Dusk
The sky, lazily disdaining to The setting sun, too indolent to holdA lengthened tournament for flashing gold, Passively darkens for night's barbeque, A feast of moon and men and barking hounds
The Lost Dancer
Spatial depths of being The birth to death Of feet dancing on earth of sand; Vibrations of the dance
