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.