Am I really? The one existing wing is in pretty darn bad shape, sergeant. The prayer will have to make it alone, and is threadbare as it is.
What a wonderful world.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Monday, February 4, 2008
Right. Here we are. Silence still suits me better. And he writes as if words were snowflakes. Unique. Fragile. Momentary.
here’s to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to your (in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain
and here’s to silent certainly mountains; and to
a disappearing poet of always, snow
and to morning’s beautiful friend
twilight (and a first dream called ocean) and
let must or if be damned with whomever’s afraid
down with ought with because with every brain
which thinks it thinks, nor dares to feel (but up
with joy; and up with laughing and drunkenness)
here’s to one undiscoverable guess
of whose mad skill each world of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon
(From e e cummings’ No Thanks, 1935)
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