For the Mother of My Mother’s Mother by Kenneth Patchen
Wind. Flower. Pretty village.
1847.
This is the autumn, Jenny.
Leaves scratch
The lowest star.
Green are the leaves, Jenny.
Pleasure in a warm young body…
Dogs snap
At the Sullen moon.
Cruel are the dogs, Jenny.
They do their crazysad love
Over your sleeping face.
Snow. Rain. A bad word.
Jenny, my darling Jenny…
Black are the leaves that fall
On your grave.