E. E. Cummings

Of This Wilting Wall The Colour Drub

of this wilting wall the colour drub souring sunbeams,of a foetal fragrance to rickety unclosed blinds inslants peregrinate,a cigar-stub disintegrates,above,underdrawers club the faintly sweating air with pinkness, one pale dog behind a slopcaked shrub painstakingly utters a slippery mess, a star sleepily,feebly,scratches the sore of morning.  But i am interested more intricately in the delicate scorn with which in a putrid window every day almost leans a lady whose still-born smile involves the comedy of decay,

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