Portraits I

the
nimble
heat
had

long on a certain
taut precarious
holiday
frighteningly

performed
and
at tremont and bromfield i
paused a moment because

on the frying
curb the
quiet face
lay

which had been dorothy
and once
permitted
me for

twenty
iron
men
her common purple

soul
the absurd eyelids sulked
enormous
sobs puckered the foolish

breasts the
droll
mouth
wilted

and not old,harry,a
woman in the crowd
whinnied and a man squeezing her
waist said

the cop ’s rung for the
wagon but as i was
lifting the horror
of her toylike

head and vainly
tried to
catch on funny
hand opening the hard great

eyes to noone in particular she
gasped almost
loudly
i’m

so
drunG

k,dear