Classic Poem

autumn is: that between there and here
gladness flays hideously hills.
It was in the spring of this very year

(a spring of wines women and window-sills)
i met that hideous gladness, per the face
— pinxit, who knows? Who knows? Some " allemand " ....?
of Goethe, since exempt from heaven's grace,

in an engraving belonging to my friend.
Whom i salute, by what is dear to us;
and by a gestured city stilled in the framing
twilight of Spring....and the dream of dreaming
— and i fall back, quietly amorous
of, through the autumn indisputably roaming

death's big rotten particular kiss.