5 To T. Agreed. I'll be today your twenty-first but furtive woman. Don't tell of me to number twenty-two. Don't count me. Do not Count on me. And call me in the dark with all the twenty names: Eve -- at evening; Lilith -- in fig leaves. I will combine the breasts And limbs of all your women -- holding you with twenty bodies, Two hundred fingers on my forty hands; voice like a chorus; Hunting, biting with six hundred forty teeth; black-haired, red-haired, Blonde; long-legged and short; athletic, curvy; rosy, pale; restrained And violent; violet eyes and green; a hooker and a virgin; Of twenty, thirty, forty years of age; the one you longed for, But could never have; the other one you longed for who was lost; One who longed for you, but lost you - all of them, but still unknown, The longing multiplied by twenty. No. Six hundred forty.







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IRENE CĂSAR
Returned Mail
Collected Poems

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