Deep under the parasol I see the marvelous prostitutes Their dress a bit faded on the side of the streetlight color of the woods With them they walk a big piece of wallpaper Such as you cannot contemplate without a lump in your throat on the ancient floors of A house under demolition Or a white marble seashell fallen from a fireplace Or a net of those chains that behind them are blurred in the mirrors The great instinct of combustion seizes the streets where they stand Like grilled flowers Eyes in the distance raising a wind of stone While they sink immobile in the center of the whirlwind To me nothing equals the meaning of their unimplemented thought The freshness of the gutter in which their booties dip the shadow of their beak The reality of these handfuls of mown hay into which they disappear I see their breasts that are a point of sunlight in the dark night The time they take to rise and fall is the only exact measure of life I see their breasts that are stars on the waves Their breasts in which forever weeps the invisible blue milk | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THIRD BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 23 by THOMAS CAMPION MERCILES BEAUTE; A TRIPLE ROUNDEL: 3. ESCAPE by GEOFFREY CHAUCER ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE by WILLIAM COWPER SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR HER LETTER by FRANCIS BRET HARTE IN HOSPITAL: 3. INTERIOR by WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY BRIDAL BALLAD by EDGAR ALLAN POE |