e. e. cummings
yours is the music for no instrument
yours the preposterous colour unbeheld
–mine the unbought contemptuous intent
till this our flesh merely shall be excelled
by speaking flower
(if I have made songs
it does not greatly matter to the sun,
nor will rain care
cautiously who prolongs
unserious twilight) shadows have begun
the hair’s worm huge, ecstatic, rathe . . .
yours are the poems i do not write.
In this at least we have got a bulge on death,
silence, and the keenly musical light
of sudden nothing . . . . la bocca mia “he
kissed wholly trembling”
or so thought the lady.
