Back to Index

Tails

by Gertrude Stein, 1914

Cold pails, cold with joy no joy.

A tiny seat that means meadows and a lapse of cuddles with cheese and nearly bats, all this went messed. The post placed a loud loose sprain. A rest is no better. It is better yet. All the time.

Published in Tender Buttons
Tags:

Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.