Sonnets—Realities XI god pity me whom(god distinctly has) the weightless svelte drifting sexual feather of your shall i say body?follows truly through a dribbling moan of jazz whose arched occasional steep youth swallows curvingly the keenness of my hips; or,your first twitch of crisp boy flesh dips my height in a firm fragile stinging weather, (breathless with sharp necessary lips)kid female cracksman of the nifty,ruffian-rogue, laughing body with wise breasts half-grown, lisping flesh quick to thread the fattish drone of I Want a Doll, wispish-agile feet with slid steps parting the tousle of saxophonic brogue.