She thought I was too old or too knowing. Her glance fixed on John and grew soft. That afternoon at Montmartre I lost them altogether though I knew who it was kissing hotly in the shade. I writhed all night recalling how her eyes switched on as she spoke of stepping out of her black…
O I feel so free now All the doors are open & all the birds I can hear from here are open too!
In 1593 Calingicus Wrote a tract on the mortality of birds. I do not desire to point out how much error Traces his diagrammatic sureness, only To say he saw the species at a new angle, Being somehow reminded in their motion Not of the dilated freedom we live in But of the tight chain…
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