Carl Sandburg


He had arguments about a woman.
He argued to himself about her.
She was a hellcat, he argued.
Crazy, never the same two minutes.
Yet her breasts were hills of passion,
Her tongue made for swift kissing,
Her torso held sanctuaries
Strange as the lost temples
Of sunken archipelagoes —
She carried sacraments for him
Yet his words for her were hellcat,
Crazy woman.