Tamed by Miltown， we lie on Mother's bed；

    the rising sun in war paint dyes us red；

    in broad daylight her gilded¹ bed-posts shine，

    abandoned， almost Dionysian.

    At last the trees are green on Marlborough Street，

    blossoms on our magnolia ignite

    the morning with their murderous five days' white.

    All night I've held your hand，

    as if you had

    a fourth time faced the kingdom of the mad

    its hackneyed speech， its homicidal eye

    and dragged me home alive. . . .Oh my Petite，

    clearest of all God's creatures， still all air and nerve：

    you were in our twenties， and I，

    once hand on glass

    and heart in mouth，

    outdrank the Rahvs in the heat

    of Greenwich Village， fainting at your feet

    too boiled and shy

    and poker-faced to make a pass，

    while the shrill² verve

    of your invective³ scorched⁴ the traditional South.

    Now twelve years later， you turn your back.

    Sleepless， you hold

    your pillow to your hollows like a child；

    your old-fashioned tirade

    loving， rapid， merciless

    breaks like the Atlantic Ocean on my head