E. E. Cummings

The Poem Her Belly Marched Through Me As

the poem her belly marched through me as
one army.   From her nostrils to her feet
 
she smelled of silence.   The inspired cleat
 
of her glad leg pulled into a sole mass
my separate lusts
                            her hair was like a gas
evil to feel.   Unwieldy….
 
                                        the bloodbeat
in her fierce laziness tried to repeat
a trick of syncopation Europe has
 
—. One day i felt a mountain touch me where
I stood (maybe nine miles off).   It was spring
 
sun-stirring.   sweetly to the mangling air
muchness of buds mattered.   a valley spilled
its tickling river in my eyes,
                                              the killed
 
world wriggled like a twitched string.
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