Ayn Rand

In a line drawn, elusive to most, I was a surprise to her, when I crossed it:

 

We, given to tryst, the corner-art—we, the please, we ask so little of love—

The sticky path taken, was more than theoretical, for us,

We, still, can’t help but fall hard from theater seats, as

 

We: carved of the most beautiful of silhouettes;

We: cupped blooms of red in hands out-spread;

 

We, the crème of the calla, give on to what must come after,

In heartsick lungs, abandoning chest, drunk on cigarillos, and

Sweat under lines, scratched to backs, the bed-art—we, the please,

We asked so little of love, even then.

 

Is that philosophical enough?

To fall in with?

 

Maybe for Ayn Rand, it is.

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