# Four Poems

By [tamar](https://paragraph.com/@tamarloves) · 2023-11-15

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**  
Early Before Noon**  
Limb, Limbs flashing, always limbs  
pink- bronze and young leaves  
almost turned with fall — seasons all late  
this year, and now always — the way  
roses crystalize, long ahead, without nothing  
the grass tips spurt fire,  
climbing one’s back and reminds as all  
nature, to kill and exult;  
the individual. Absolute and  
ruthless distinction — all of man’s houses  
hanging by rings with buzz and din.  
Red doors, where grandfather’s and  
dead loves lay.  
  
The city’s din and hum a razor when calm— still  
bloody, more peace than —  
we can laugh and burn and sit the rest  
relaxed and realized that before,  
as almost all of what’s to’s  
been figured, so sit and eat the new and old  
fineries — and drink! — and know there’s  
something more to do until we are all  
wise and beyond love.

**I Saw the Breasts Of**  
I saw the breasts of Venus the night before  
I saw her—in a dream,  
Where I remembered what I saw and then felt.  
  
Years ago her breasts floated the same  
Like pale swollen apples  
Warm and perfectly puckering to  
Their dainted dark rose ends.  
I remembered them and her who I half knew  
And how she invited me to her split room—  
And one or two others:  
Knowing only one could accept.  
I accepted that night,  
Simple and happy and unworried about love and lust  
(which may mean love)— and  
She touched me and kissed me  
Until her stripped shirt split for her—  
Venus, they spun but fuller,  
Ever warmer, even lovelier but without her  
I’d never have known that night why I dreamt,  
Until I saw her that morning and knew  
I’d seen her more than marble.  
  
The two girls twined and languid with eachother—  
I dreamed them too, just hours ago.  
One a long lover past, one more  
Innocent and sweetly-dumb than the sun.  
Another always her half-disapproved friend. She spat on me and  
She rubbed me,  
They are immortal— whether I am  
Is no interest — they are young (many old):  
Caresses languid as dancing, their bodies never change.  
  
They are immortal— and why I remember must be the same  
As the crowds remember, huddling upwards to  
Venus de Milo (half-looking)  
They are the faint memory,  
And the flesh still warm not stone.

**When I Wake and Able**  
When I wake and able to lay,  
Or standing waking midday  
Soul raw and still grateful (always fleeting)  
And pained for— and pained  
Most and commonly for those alone,  
Wishing otherwise, and those  
Who don’t, still alone…  
Forgetting the breed of man who is neither (numerable  
By hand and prayable piecemeal later),  
I pray for loneliness and for its resolutions.  
And the prayers feel weak  
And almost all the prayers feel weak nowadays  
But better than without.  
There’s nothing to be done with  
Feeling and openness that on occasion wakes one;  
And those who say otherwise have never felt;  
Prayer for when there is nothing else.  
I’m not sure this direction my prayers  
Always fall towards, speaks to me or the rest.

  
**God’s Little Angels**  
God’s little angels—  
(Some of whom have hands), dumb and  
Standing, working, closing their  
Bags with tumors the size of breasts.  
Some would kill them,  
Others recommend the zoo  
(For edification’s sake).  
One day there will be none by science  
Or judgement. Surely then  
We will know tears,  
Then the maybe smiles of their parents?  
Their mouths and eyes will hold the mysteries.  
What they will look like will be  
Enough of a miracle.

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*Originally published on [tamar](https://paragraph.com/@tamarloves/four-poems)*