concrete poetry

music i heard with you was more than music
grieve not for the invisible
i do not pray for peace
that year
of sun nor stars
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
short and sweet, and we've come to the end of it
she must go back, she said
in an old chamber softly lit
which i wish to remark
if i should die, think only this of me
could we but know
i think it just splendid
do i like it