Alfred Kreymborg, ed. Others for 1919. 1920.
Witter Bynner
Leer
I
Carrying each of them a rib of you,
And a cannibal-king bearing your collar-bones,
One in my right hand, one in my left,
And touching my forehead with them at slow intervals,
Might I not be too comforted
To weep?
Not left you unconsumed,
Might not the moon have silvered me with content,
Oiled me like the long edges of palms?