III

We might have coupled

In the bed-ridden monopoly of a moment

Or broken flesh with one another

At the profane communion table

Where wine is spill’d on promiscuous lips

We might have given birth to a butterfly

With the daily news

Printed in blood on its wings

*          *          *

VI

I know the Wire-Puller intimately

And if it were not for the people

On whom you keep one eye

You could look straight at me

And Time would be set back

*          *          *

IX

When we lifted

Our eye-lids on Love

A cosmos

Of coloured voices

And laughing honey

And spermatazoa

At the core of Nothing

In the milk of the Moon

X

Shuttle-cock and battle-door

A little pink-love

And feathers are strewn

*          *          *

XV

Seldom     Trying for Love

Fantasy dealt them out as gods

Two or three men     looked only human

But you alone

Superhuman     apparently

I had to be caught in the weak eddy

Of your drivelling humanity

               To love you most

*          *          *

XXIII

The prig of passion – – – –

To your professional paucity

Proto-plasm was raving mad

Evolving us – – – –

XXXIV

Love – – – the preeminent litterateur

—Mina Loy, from “Songs to Joannes” (1915-1917)