| from "is 5": Five: III... e.e. cummings... |
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along the brittle treacherous bright streets of memory comes my heart,singing like an idiot,whispering like a drunken man |
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who(at a certain corner,suddenly)meets the tall policeman of my mind. awake being not asleep,elsewhere our dreams began which now are folded:but the year completes his life as a forgotten prisoner |
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-"Ici?"-"Ah non, mon chéri; il fait trop froid"- they are gone:along these gardens moves a wind bringing rain and leaves,filling the air with fear and sweetness . . . . pauses. (Halfwhispering . . . halfsinging |
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stirs the always smiling chevaux de bois) when you were in Paris we met here |
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