one winter afternoon
(at the magical hour
when is becomes if)
a bespangled clown
standing on eighth street
handed me a flower.
Nobody,it’s safe
to say, observed him but
myself;and why?because
without any doubt he was
whatever (first and last)
mostpeople fear most:
a mystery for which i’ve
no word except alive
-that is,completely alert
and miraculously whole;
with not merely a mind and a heart
but unquestionably a soul-
by no means funereally hilarious
(or otherwise democratic)
but essentially poetic
or ethereally serious:
a fine not a coarse clown
(no mob,but a person)
and while never saying a word
who was anything but dumb;
since the silence of him
self sang like a bird.
Mostpeople have been heard
screaming for international
measures that render hell rational
-i thank heaven somebody’s crazy
enough to give me a daisy
e.e. cummings
