And in the autumn who will come, when ink tricks down the sharp-edged trees?
When life clings death and warmth to winter
who shall fly him out to sea?
I have no meaning art or sense—I only feel and feeling move. Words
my shards,
and dripping glue, hands mosaic more
than this let fall for you.
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No subject
My hands—just hands.
There’s ages between me and you.
The words belie the time,
the rain, the rime, the reason—
October’s last thawed Thursday twists,
and the sun flies out to sea.
No words hold back the last sharp smells
of trees and lamps and leaves.