Loafe I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best, Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat, Not words, not music or rhyme.

We mind just just how as we lay this kind of transparent summer time early morning, the method that you settled your mind athwart my sides and carefully turn’d over you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my feet upon me, And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart, And reach’d till.