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There are more than 200 results, only the first 200 are displayed here.
They feel a shyness and a fear/taking off their clothes. Gravity has had its say/regarding shape and size. Their bodies are a narrative/permitting no disguise. There’s been no rush — or just a bit — the lattes have been had.
All right, Chongqing, let my dry skin fall in love with your moisture, my eyes used to the desolation and wind and sand ... Your sudden flashes of lightning and thunder, commotion of dripping water, and the heaving quietness, the fate of history.
He may be proud, even arrogant, but he's fun. With Odysseus you read yourself; his company is exciting and revealing, so much so that his homecoming is everyone's domesticity.
What about compoundnounsthatrunlike this. Something here about the glory of native bush even tho you have never been beyond zone 3 on PT. Add doleful '....' Beckettian misery here. (Phew, your 20th century Lit Minor was not a waste!) So winning so woke you never even zzz.
He proceeded to move in with silence. His eyelash touched her cheek first, then his lips. Only one with an expert heart could get it this right, she thought to herself, as he kissed the right, then left cheek, pressing his fig-lips precisely in the right place.
Robert Harris' The Gang of One ranges through Harris' five published books and a number of uncollected poems. Early work grows from his occasionally lonely, knockabout life and reveals not only a talent for catching the essence of fleeting memories and perceptions but also a mordant touch that gives edge to memory.
A voice made for poetry, asking of you post surgery, your whereabouts in the labyrinth of cures. I spoke of blind turns and errors, of kindness, though mainly your courage. He recalled his one big scare, declared he'd not want to swap.
I left the memorial and at home dug deep into the garden, stacking bricks to retain what was left of the beds, to hold back the fall of earth ...
Wandering out of sorts around the lake, my thoughts backward now there is more past than future, I see a boy and girl on a school day wearing uniforms I recognise from when my son arranged his to resemble the garb of an urchin.
Her forearm itches, brick wall rough against her back; she counts stars, a rosary, alpha, beta, epsilon, earning the master's cut, enough for her next hit of smack.
Windswept Judean hills. Not by the sheer vista below could her abundance ever be measured; striding, with each step she believed no one could transcend the largesse she carried.
A student of Ethics and Philosophy, aspiring librettist, Gaetano Leigh read dusty books on the 16th century Jesuit priest Matteo Ricci in the basement of the Central Library ... Daily Gaetano imagined sailing the South China Sea re-reading catholic theology written to entice the scholarly Confucians ...
133-144 out of 200 results.