the mind is its own beautiful prisoner.
Mine looked long at the sticky moon
opening in dusk her new wings
then decently hanged himself,one afternoon.
The last thing he saw was you
naked amid unnaked things,
your flesh,a succinct wandlike animal,
a little strolling with the futile purr
of blood;your sex squeaked like a billiard-cue
chalking itself, as not to make an error,
with twists spontaneously methodical.
He suddenly tasted worms windows and roses
he laughed,and closed his eyes as a girl closes
her left hand upon a mirror.
There are four poems in my E.E. Cummings anthology that are marked with a pink post-it. This is one of them. Another is the first poem I posted--- somewhere i have never travelled. The other two, I will post in time. =)
I love this poem. Is it strange that I know EXACTLY what he means in the last three lines? I know what he means throughout. I think I knew him in my past life. Maybe I WAS him! Wishful thinking. =)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment