So Long, Marilyn!


So long! 


“…This is no book,

Who touches this, touches a man,

(Is it night? Are we here alone?)

It is I you hold, and who holds you,

I spring from the pages into your arms—decease

calls me forth.


 O how your fingers drowse me!

Your breath falls around me like dew—your pulse

lulls the tympans of my ears,

I feel immerged from head to foot,



Walt Whitman