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enter no(silence is the blood whose flesh
is singing)silence:but unsinging. In
spectral such hugest how hush,one
dead leaf stirring makes a crash
-far away(as far as alive)lies
april;and i breathe-move-and-seem some
perpetually roaming whylessness-
autumn has gone:will winter never come?
o come,terrible anonymity;enfold
phantom me with the murdering minus of cold
-open this ghost with millionary knives of wind-
scatter his nothing all over what angry skies and
gently
(very whiteness:absolute peace,
never imaginable mystery)
descend
ee cummings
Read poems about / on: april, autumn, silence, winter, peace, wind, murder, sky
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