One line more than any other struck me with this poem: yours are the poems i do not write. Beautiful. This line and poem and so much more can be found in the collection Tulips & Chimneys by E. E. Cummings.
yours is the music for no instrument
yours the preposterous colour unbeheld
till this our flesh merely shall be excelled
by speaking flower
(if i have made songs
it does not greatly matter to the sun,
nor will rain care
cautiously who prolongs
unserious twilight) Shadows have begun
the hair’s worm huge,ecstatic,rathe….
you are the poems i do not write.
In this at least we have go a bulge on death,
silence ,and the keenly musical light
of sudden nothing….las bocca mia “he
kissed wholly trembling”
or so thought the lady.
Please note that I did my best to remain true to E.E. Cummings grammar, spacing and punctuations.