e. e. cummings: along the brittle treacherous bright streets

along the brittle treacherous bright streets
of memory comes my heart singing like
an idiot whispering like drunken man

who(at a certain corner suddenly)meets
the tall policeman of my mind.

being not asleep elsewhere our dreams began
which now are folded:but the year completes
his life as a forgotten prisoner

-‘Ici?’-‘Ah non mon chéri;il fait trop froid’-
they are gone:along these gardens moves a wind br
rain and leaves filling the air with fear
and sweetness….pauses. (Halfwhispering….half

stirs the always smiling chevaux de bois

when you were in Paris we met here

from E. E. Cummings: Selected Poems (1994) (p. 66)


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