Song of Myself, an excerpt
I read these words on the bus home from work. My body responded to the amusement of the stranger who sat beside me. But how could my body not?
“Loafe with me on the grass … loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want …. not custom or lecture,
not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
I mind how we lay in June, such a transparent summer morning;
You settled your head athwart my hips and gently turned over
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my barestript heart,
And reached till you felt my beard, and reached till you held my feet.”
(Walt Whitman, 1855)