Inside of the house on the surface. <br />Her milk of my wife is the mother. <br />And this strange lactating goddess, <br />two sensitive protective places, by her hands I drink. <br />My necessities are like hers and the meals, <br />from which I by her insistance partake of entirely. <br />What the gallons of which off to it she gives, <br />can I and I have remembered within each creamy dreams. <br />In the blood lies my finger, hers which ties off unto the hat. <br />My freckled arms from this somewhere I am connected, <br />like two dogs to that heaving chest. <br />Which from it I catch and it shoots off to, with me, <br />you have me stoop down up and out. <br />The sound like waves from your chest, <br />How I have known at midnight like my lost black sea. <br />The mother, <br />I put the bees in my mouth and pull as I eat. <br />Your chest where milk poured out finally from both those noises. <br />Whom may with out my, shut off the milk? <br />Included are both hands and he gripping those. <br />You took thate from his and inside where of those it is planted. <br />I of you, you of I who put in place the padlock, you the mother, <br />became from love and never die, for you to be large as bells, <br />those being more valuable, the white shivering foal, <br />it is possible, as it runs to it goes, running, as a stream <br />for that certain place <br />and being pulled off it wanders over next door, too wherever.<br /><br />Is It Poetry<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/her-milk-my-milk/
