yours is the music for no instrument
yours the preposterous colour unbeheld
—mine the unbought contemptuous intent
till this our flesh merely shall be excelled
by speaking flower
(if i have made songs
it does not greatly matter to the sun,
nor will rain care
cautiously who prolongs
unserious twilight)Shadows have begun
the hair’s worm huge,ecstatic,rathe....
yours are the poems i do not write.
In this at least we have got a bulge of death,
silence,and the keenly musical light
of sudden nothing....la bocca mia “he
kissed wholly trembling”
or so thought the lady.