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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=556407" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>How Many Legs I'll Have To Lose</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">You’ve combed your hair again and I am drinking wine<br>I bought tonight after I left you at that party in wounded<br>And high weeded guts of <br>West Palm Beach: the grapes are from the grandes bodegas <br>Where the poets rest in the trenches of lime, <br>And I jogged today after I left you Alma over the waters and<br>Into the soft terrain of the rich man’s homes, <br>And they made me smile and think of you, because you are<br>So beautiful that you could fit into any of those homes and<br>Make them smaller; <br>And how you’ve cast your eyes out of buses traveling far<br>And to the east; <br>And how you’ve never seen the Wizard of Oz, and I never<br>Want to have to fire you: <br>I feel like a torch in a warm dungeon full of booby traps when<br>I am nearer you: <br>I feel like a teenager slipping away from school to bask in his<br>Pastimes of cemeteries which border the teal tennis courts<br>Where the topless din mothers and their professional sisters play<br>At ease in their early retirement: <br>And after I left you I jogged until I stopped to yawn up at the <br>Soft belly of an airplane: it almost didn’t seem real.<br>Just as none of this seems real: the monsters that I have to kill for<br>You are out there but impossible, <br>And I love you, but the journey is long and the windshields <br>Have fogged<br>And I don’t know how many legs I’ll have to lose to win you.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Bret+R.+Crabrooke">Bret R. Crabrooke</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=556407" data-title="How Many Legs I'll Have To Lose de Bret R. Crabrooke" data-description="You’ve combed your hair again and I am drinking wine
I bought tonight after I left you at that party in wounded
And high weeded guts of 
West Palm Beach: the grapes are from the grandes bodegas 
Where the poets rest in the trenches of lime, 
And..."></div>
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