09-12-2016, 12:55 PM
I dwell in possibility; twenty-eight years
so lone, the fine house by the side
of the bank, a fairer house than prose.
Twenty-eight men bathe by the shore.
Paradise. She hides aft blinds of the window,
the gambrels of the sky.
Young men float on their backs, visitors,
the fairest, stock still in your room.
They do not ask who seizes.
An unseen hand passed over their bodies,
impregnable of eye; descended from their
temples and ribs, spreading wide.
More numerous of windows she saw
and loved them. They do not know
of narrow hands glisten’d with wet.
Which of the young men?
From their hair the cedars ran,
superior bending arches,
white bellies to the sun.
Poem 'found' in Walt Whitman's {Song of Myself section 11}, and Emily Dickinson's {I dwell in Possibility}