And I can wish for no Love, for the listless Heart is listlessly dead.
I wish instead, in hastening present clock-ticking moments, for a Thousand present-warmed Kisses: a Thousand in Wanton response to a Wanton ’leven-o’clock.
Dominating waving washing warmth of Wantonness, compassing me at eleven o’clock.
A Thousand careless insouciant Kisses: a Thousand gorgeous delicate Kisses: a round Thousand.
From what lips—whose lips—what do I know?—: so their Kisses are a Thousand.
From what lips—what do I care?—: so they be eager and live and tenderly false.
—come some of the Thousand glowing on my pink lips, and my white fingers, which were tense, relax—
—come more of the Thousand, and my rigid hard-riding thoughts grow drowsy and pliant and negligible.
—come more of the Thousand, and my knees and the marrow in my bones are gently aware of most logical opiate ease—
—come more of the Thousand, and my midriff is full of cream-and-chocolate casualness and my smooth arms are washed down with mists of custom.