I am not prone on my green couch, frayed, frazzled, bowed-down in
spirit from a day of frightful stress and cross-purpose.
Instead, hair-triggerishly alive, with definite desire beating
hotly this moment in my throat: the wish for Kisses--Kisses far
removed from Death and Graves and Coffins: Kisses of this present
clock-tickingness, Kisses useless, meaningless, sweet--oh, _sweet_!--
--in number, a Thousand: in kind. Wanton.
_A fluttering-moth wish_