So Long, Marilyn!

 
 

So long! 

 20

“…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.

21

 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,

Delicious—enough…”

 

Walt Whitman

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