If I married him for length,
none was so little so long.
How think to explain it?-
Words I have known are now his,
his weight rests under my pillow.
I have nothing for floating.
My children are of groceries,
and not of love. None
has fallen for years, none come crying,
as if the middle years were trying
to break me of my light warping.
I am not so lucky for looking.
On the white sheet of his will
my children inherited
the objects of original pleasure, his
for which I gave up pleasure,
for pleasure, in pleasure, to pleasure.
I am the lot of him, as is my wont.
Yet have wanted to wear the ring of him,
hear it and recreate it.
Into the night those marriages go
to which woman is bound to be used.
All over I hear the breathing pause
at the long entrance of the children.
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