Poem a Day

Autumn is a second spring where every leaf is a flower.

-Albert Camus

i like
to think that on
the flower you gave me when we
loved

          the far-
departed mouth sweetly-saluted
lingers.
            if one marvel

seeing the hunger of my
lips for a dead thing,
i shall instruct
him silently with becoming

steps to seek
your face     and i
entreat,by certain foolish perfect
hours

         dead too,
if that he come receive
him as your lover sumptuously
being

kind
because i trust him to
your grace,and for
in his own land

he is called death.

-E.E. Cummings

suppose
Life is an old man carrying flowers on his head.

young death sits in a cafe
smiling, a piece of money held between
his thumb and first finger

(i say “will he buy flowers” to you
and “Death is young
life wears velour trousers
life totters, life has a beard” i

say to you who are silent. – “Do you see
Life? he is there and here,
or that, or this
or nothing or an old man 3 thirds
asleep, on his head
flowers, always crying
to nobody something about les
roses les bluets
                yes,
                    will He buy?
Les belles bottes – oh hear
, pas cheres”)

and my love slowly answered I think so. But
I think I see someone else

there is a lady, whose name is Afterwards
she is sitting beside young death, is slender;
likes flowers.

-E.E. Cummings

Among
     these
          red pieces of
day(against which and
quite silently hills
made of blueandgreen paper

scorchblend ingthem
-selves-U
pcurv E,into:
          anguish (clim
b) ing
s-p-i-r-a
1
and,disappear)
               Satanic and blasé

a black goat lookingly wanders

There is nothing left of the world but
into this noth
ing il treno per
Roma si-gnori ?
jerk.
ilyr,ushes

-E.E. Cummings