are what the heart? some
fresh vehicle of kissing?) i have

broached in sinuous deliberate
matchless chords of straining music
                               ,
to break the fragile muss of intrinsic Spring
                               ,

in twain of pressless spent thrilling flowers

(whose mute crushing sends hardboys to war


)and propels quiet girls to wares.

to what unthing new do i impossibly owe my hands to touch?
(its face perhaps its lips or
the body beneath when

it parts beyond darkness

,and some fat drunkard
howls at the moon)?

sunlight
where
your
fatal chord
of music
strains
the mute
scepter
of night
bleeds
crimsonly
a thin note
of thigh
parting
light(


                      your
             mouth
                       which
                 ekil
                      is
                         a
               turned
                         upon
                   medallion
                 ofvery
          Spring.Agape

                     T
                     o
receive

                              the


thick

                  brutal


          ***


                     of poppies

      )

by what courtesy of some small voice does the city speak,

little and so much

it says, "by the way have you seen the old man in
his tired skin,

goodbye,

waiting next to the young drunks so loud underneath they are so loud and not a whisper can escape ,  "

the city, and it talks too much it

cannot be heard

over its own
voice
          .

it feels too heavy with people
and sounds often
in little boxes

, people

little boxes in them

where sounds

are too heavy.

i feel not myself the rain or a trees outside the wind or in the dark a bit (slenderly) where.

.































                                               I am not myself

                                               (or

                                               am I always

                                               the same           )



















































.