page 6

Two sighs (from a sensitive secondrate mind hopelessly in love with the girl in the desk in front)

Silver light in her auburn
hair, nape-long, touching
the shoulders. Dare I?
She's a ghost to me, I'II never touch.
If I tried, I fear the light
in her skin will turn
to clay. Or. I'd touch
nothing, for could anyone
(O those lips!) so
beautiful be
real?

Dare I speak?
Dare I ripple her image with
sound waves? Is she a
piece of silent song, and
yet . . . the descant of
her hair!
(O please don't stop singing)

E.H

The pretty fresher
Grins at her friends
Who do not see.

Lilac blossom;
A cat stands on its hind legs
to Sniff.

That little boy!
He snarled
At a businessman on the bus.