This poem is called "Melancholy."
I mentioned before in one of the classes, it's my favorite mood.
I like to sort of sit-in a rocking chair and sulk.
"Melancholy."
A snowstorm in the middle of May.
You sit by the window chin on palm,
listening to the sparrows calling from behind the snow
drifts, watching the black ash of the butterfly wilting
on the branches.
Nothing can penetrate this sadness.
A basket of flowers would be good for the dead.
A thaw would turn the Earth to mud.
When your wife calls you down to dinner
your meal is like the fresh meat of the locust, the milk,
blue as your mother's breast.
The gauze of the curtains is an eyelid between you
and the world, some vague impressions,
a flotilla of grasses sinking in the snow, a moon
without shadow, a bee collapsing at the heart of the flower.