Saturday, September 07, 2013

thy hair is acold with / dreams


Early morning. Murray Street, Hobart. July 2013.

I have set myself the task of writing five new poems in the next five days. If I'm impressed enough with my output, I might just publish them online. However, I am always on the lookout for themes and subjects. Keep an eye out for me please.

Cruelly,Love, ee cummings

cruelly,love
walk the autumn long;
the last flower in whose hair,
they lips are cold with songs

for which is
first to wither,to pass?
shallowness of sunlight
falls,and cruelly,
across the grass
Comes the
moon

love,walk the
autumn
love,for the last
flower in the hair withers;
thy hair is acold with
dreams,
love thou art frail

—walk the longness of autumn
smile dustily to the people,
for winter
who crookedly care.

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