painter of fragile Marys will understand how smiling may be made as skilfully.) But carry also, with that indolent and with this flower wholly whom you do not ever fear, me in your heart softly;not all but the beginning of mySelf XII you being in love will tell who softly asks in love, am i separated from your body smile brain hands merely to become the jumping puppets of a dream? oh i mean: entirely having in my careful how careful arms created this at length inexcusable, this inexplicable pleasure--you go from several persons:believe me that strangers arrive when i have kissed you into a memory slowly, oh seriously --that since and if you disappear solemnly myselves ask “life, the question how do i drink dream smile and how do i prefer this face to another and why do i weep eat sleep--what does the whole intend” they wonder. ohandthey cry “to be,being,thatiamalive this absurd fraction in its lowest terms with everything cancelled but shadows --what does it all come down to? love? Love if you like and i like, for the reason that i hate people and lean out of this window is love,love and the reason that i laugh and breathe is oh love and the reason that i do not fall into this street is love.” XIII Nobody wears a yellow flower in his buttonhole he is altogether a queer fellow as young as he is old when autumn comes, who twiddles his white thumbs and frisks down the boulevards without his coat and hat --(and i wonder just why that should please him or i wonder what he does) and why(at the bottom of this trunk, under some dirty collars)only a moment (or was it perhaps a year)ago i found staring me in the face a dead yellow small rose XIV it is so long since my heart has been with yours shut by our mingling arms through a darkness where new lights begin and increase, since your mind has walked into my kiss as a stranger into the streets and colours of a town-- that i have perhaps forgotten how, always(from these hurrying crudities of blood and flesh)Love coins His most gradual gesture, and whittles life to eternity --after which our separating selves become museums filled with skilfully stuffed memories XV i am a beggar always who begs in your mind (slightly smiling, patient, unspeaking with a sign on his breast BLIND)yes i am this person of whom somehow you are never wholly rid(and who does not ask for more than just enough dreams to live on) after all, kid you might as well toss him a few thoughts a little love preferably, anything which you can’t pass off on other people: for instance a plugged promise--