It's a morning of snow and crows storming the bare treetops
As if they invade the eves of a burned-out cathedral.
Where are the children? A ludicrous posture of mourning

Softness belongs to life. 
Tell me your forbidden thoughts 
and we will breathe together.

Inside the head there lives a lonely dog
It is drooling spit
digging through a mountain pile of garbage

Look at you, cutting and weeping. Idiot.

Fist to fist with tulips, glads, selving and unselving
daffodils, they work their metamorphoses in loam

      They are far from shore.
Foam-glittering , they rise from the waves
      in a pure fountain

In Belgium on his day, servant girls knew
to stay away from the fields, because
he gave the cabbages large heads

I remember when this harbor was filled with ships!
White-winged fireboats and barges and fat tugs

It's never love that brings my name to mind,
but squalor—awful word. A term tossed off

(tongue twisters, etc. for e.e. cummings)

THE CHEAP SHEIKH AND THE CHIC SHAH SEEK TO SPEAK AT A SECRET SPA.

((THE CHEAP SHEIKH AND CHIC SHAH SEEK TO CHEEK TO CHEEK AT A SECRET SPA. . .))