Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, . . .
Oh You Whom
O you whom I often and silently come where you are that I may be with you, As I walk by your side or sit near, or remain in the same room with you, Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me. —Walt Whitman, for more love poems see Leaves of . . .
I Love You
When April bends above me And finds me fast asleep, Dust need not keep the secret A live heart died to keep. When April tells the thrushes, The meadow-larks will know, And pipe the three words lightly To all the winds that blow. Above his roof the swallows, In notes like far-blown . . .
On Anatomy and Physiology
I still remember just how you look naked, the pale curve of your back, the quiet inlet where it bends to meet the taper of your waist, shower water wending where it will along the architecture of your form. There may have been studies of a form such as yours, that begged charges look and . . .
Good Neighbors
He wondered how she knew about the Cheetos; he thought he'd washed the orange dust off clean. Did she note down each case of beef burritos the dry-ice truck delivered, sight unseen? And what about the Snickers bags? Did she use high-powered binoculars to scan? Did she note down each luscious . . .
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