Portraits VIII when the spent days begins to frail (whose grave already three or two young stars with spades of silver dig) by beauty i declare to you if what i am at one o’clock to little lips(which have not sinned in whose displeasure lives a kiss) kneeling,your frequent mercy begs, sharply believe me,wholly,well —did(wisely suddenly into a dangerous womb of cringing air) the largest hour push deep his din of wallowing male(shock beyond shock blurted)strokes,vibrant with the purr of echo pouring in a mesh of following tone:did this and this spire strike midnight(and did occur bell beyond fiercely spurting bell a jetted music splashing fresh upon silence)i without fail entered because and was these twin imminent lisping bags of flesh; became eyes moist lithe shuddering big, the luminous laughter,and the legs one,i am this blueeyed Finn emerging from a lovehouse who buttons his coat against the wind