I want to write a poem for you, my lover; my minstrel with white skin that absorbs me, my minstrel that saves me from myself and brings me to hide —growing oh so small, so small in your arms . . . ever so small, till I can burrow between your fingers...
Sketch: Vol. 41
, Article 7.
Available at: http://lib.dr.iastate.edu/sketch/vol41/iss3/7