Poem

suppose
Life is an old man carrying flowers on his dead.

young death sits in a café
smiling, a piece of money held between
his thumb and first finger

(I say “will he buy flowers” to you
and “Death is young
life wears velous trousers
life totters, life has a beard” i

say to you who are silent.—“Do you see
Life? he is there and here,
or that, or this
or nothing or an old man 3 thirds
asleep, on his head
flowers, always crying
to nobody something about les
roses les bluets
                         yes,
                                 will He buy?
Les belles bottes—oh hear
, pas chères”)

and my love slowly answered I think so. But
I think I see someone else

there is a lady, whose name is Afterwards
she is sitting beside young death, is slender;
likes flowers.