# Four Poems

**Published by:** [tamar](https://paragraph.com/@tamarloves/)
**Published on:** 2023-11-15
**URL:** https://paragraph.com/@tamarloves/four-poems

## Content

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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