type of poetry

shadows lay along broadway
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
and still they walked on
little park that i pass through
up from the south at break of day
softly weeping
perhaps it is no matter that you died
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
we were not many
i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
how like the stars are these white, nameless faces