And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;- This it is, and nothing more.
Poetry is a naked woman, a naked man, and the distance between them.
Poetry as Insurgent Art
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Poetry is a naked woman, a naked man, and the distance between them.
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We reach the trailer and Shane digs through the pockets of the cargo pants slung over his arm until he finds the key. He pushes open the door and waits for me to pass through. Maybe later I__l tell myself I should have thought long and hard about what I was going to do, that I should have counted to ten and waited until I regained my sanity before stepping over the threshold, evaluated the pros and cons like a thoughtful, rational adult. But I do no such thing. Shane__ eyes are on mine as I step out of my wet sneakers, drop my damp clothes in a ball on the porch, and walk inside. He follows right behind me, and even through my wet shirt I can feel the heat radiating off his bare chest. The man is a furnace. Every warning about playing with fire zings through my mind, but I dismiss them. I want this. I__ not playing games, and neither is Shane as he grips my shoulders and turns us so my back is to the door and he__ pressed up against me. He lowers his head so our eyes are inches apart and looks at me more closely and thoughtfully than anyone ever has. He__ checking to make sure I__ okay, that my expectations are in line with what today is about. And they are. Just once, we agreed. And that will be enough.