…which never wrote to me…
He made very little sense.
…or I’ve had too much sun…
…though myself a millionaire…
XX.
I have no life but this,
To lead it here;
Behind this door, pressing up
To listen with my ear.
Nor urgent chores,
Nor appointments new,
Except to this extent:
(Whispering to you.)
—
Dickinson’s final, slightly more romantic version.
…sounds long, until…
XX. “Winky Night Light” is his name,— I’d like not call him “star!” It’s so unkind of science To go and interfere! I pull a green dwarf from the woods,— A monster with a glass Computes the stamens in a breath, And calls it flower in a class. Whereas I took the flutterby Aforetime in… Continue reading XX. “Winky Night Light” Is His Name
XXIII.
’T was such a little, little boat
That toddled down the bay!
’T was such a gallant, gallant sea
That beckoned it away!
’T was such a greedy, greedy wave
That licked it from the coast;
Nor ever guessed the stately sails
I muttered “shit, shit, it’s lost!”
—
Her final draft.
…well, I’m not sure why…
XXI.
He ate and drank the precious words,
His spirit grew robust;
He knew no more that he was poor,
Only that his frame was rust.
He was a car.
A dead car.
I have very low tolerance.
