Summer 1943 • Vol. V No. 3 Poetry |

A Love for Patsy

See the little maunderer Stretch out on the grass! His heart is burst asunder The pieces cry Alas.   Upright, fat pink pieces Of fluffy cloud float overhead. The little facets of his eyes, Split by salty tears, so tired   Of seeing pieces of the world, Close, and rustling grass, Caws of an old unpleasant bird Are sounds that say Alas;   They float like notes in the funny paper, Round notes with sharp little tails. Oh I’m blue, the supine moper Says, I’m trapped in the toils   Of Patsy’s black black hair. Her hair is like the cool dry night That waves through the window-bar Where a moody jailbird sits apart   Shuffling his broken heart. I’m sad As I can be. Her black Black hair can never be compared To dull dichotomic   Trees or prickly grass, inflated Clouds, even a great One draped on the sun. Over-rated Senseless things to stare at,   One here one there they’re strewn, Impinging pieces left out of The world. Here eyes are green! Oh oh, he says, I die

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