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 bringing
rain and leaves filling the air with fear
and sweetness....pauses. (Halfwhispering....halfsinging
stirs the always smiling chevaux de bois)
when you were in Paris we met here
e.e. cummings, Selected Poems, Richard S. Kennedy (ed.), Liveright, 2007.