yours is the music for no instrument
yours the preposterous colour unbeheld
 
—mine the unbought contemptuous intent
till this our felsh 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 on death,
silence,and the keenly musical light
 
of sudden nothing….la bocca mia “he
kissed wholly trembling”
 
                              or so thought the lady.

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