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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=555798" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Her Three Untimely Swings</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=555798" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">It feels to me that I am here, <br>In a candelabrum, in a sugar bowl- swimming around, <br>Looking out at the distortions of the dinner<br>Guests swimming like flies all around the caesuras of death<br>Which has them surrounded and out manned: <br>But for awhile they glow like goldfish in the midway of the greatest<br>State in all of America: <br>They glow like the fulcrum of Halloween, and they sing outside<br>Of the schoolyards and into churches, <br>Passing around: <br>Until they spill their own ways into monuments and dog tracks, <br>Until their particular unction takes hold<br>And they become fully developed the same way as metamorphosis <br>Or evaporation, <br>And the fingerprints you left on them like a lover’s evidence, <br>Disappear, or linger: and it is their shoulders that disappear<br>With their last names or whatever; while another <br>Thing even more lovelier than them gets up to <br>Bat at the plate of your breast work to take her three untimely <br>Swings.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Bret+R.+Crabrooke">Bret R. Crabrooke</a></strong></div>

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