Sonnets—Actualities VII

autumn is:that between there and here
gladness flays hideously hills.
It was in the spring of this very year

(a spring of wines women and window-sills)
i met that hideous gladness,per the face
—pinxit,who knows?   Who knows?   Some “allemand”....?
of Goethe,since exempt from heaven’s grace,

in an engraving belonging to my friend.
Whom i salute,by what is dear to us;
and by a gestured city stilled in the framing
twilight of Spring....and the dream of dreaming
—and i fall back,quietly amorous
of,through the autumn indisputably roaming

death’s big rotten particular kiss.