document.write("Tamed by Miltown, we lie on Mother\\\'s bed;<br />the rising sun in war paint dyes us red;<br />in broad daylight her gilded bed-posts shine,<br />abandoned, almost Dionysian.<br />At last the trees are green on Marlborough Street,<br />blossoms on our magnolia ignite<br />the morning with their murderous five days\\\' white.<br />All night I\\\'ve held your hand,<br />as if you had<br />a fourth time faced the kingdom of the mad--<br />its hackneyed speech, its homicidal eye--<br />and dragged me home alive. . . .Oh my Petite,<br />clearest of all God\\\'s creatures, still all air and nerve:<br />you were in our twenties, and I,<br />once hand on glass<br />and heart in mouth,<br />outdrank the Rahvs in the heat<br />of Greenwich Village, fainting at your feet--<br />too boiled and shy<br />and poker-faced to make a pass,<br />while the shrill verve<br />of your invective scorched the traditional South.<br /><br />Now twelve years later, you turn your back.<br />Sleepless, you hold<br />your pillow to your hollows like a child;<br />your old-fashioned tirade--<br />loving, rapid, merciless--<br />breaks like the Atlantic Ocean on my head.");