Portrait of the Artist as a Young Lover


They would be tittering together now

with their horrid bodies close,

their arms and legs and throats

as brown as berries.

She too wants me to catch hold of her.

I could hold her and kiss her, he thought–

put her straight-haired, heavy head

on my shoulder, brave enough at last

to hold her cold hand in its glove. 

The lank brown horses knew it 

and shook their bells, anchored among 

the hulks of houses and the snow man

with the broken back collapsed.

Her chest moved up and down.


Her rough body, bottle-legs,

grew from a few words.

Laughing from the shelter of the chapel

into the darkness, this heretic 

with his hand on her breast

opened his eyes with a nervous impulse,

saw the town in a daze spin by them.

There was never a young lover

who didn’t love the moon, they said,

pecking each other like gulls in the air,

dirty as Christ knows what. 


1 Comment

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One response to “Portrait of the Artist as a Young Lover

  1. zahrahisonline

    Hi, please could you check out my recent poems, I’m a sixteen year old aspiring poet and it would mean a lot to me! http://wp.me/s4V2SR-him and http://wp.me/s4V2SR-stars

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