anyone’s any was all to her

and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart: 

when you sing in your whisky voice 
when the world is mud-
luscious, the little 
bird by snow and stir by still
when the world is puddle-wonderful 
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.

since feeling is first, 
in every language even deafanddumb
,
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy

and what i want to know is
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
far 
and 
wee

Fleeter be they than dappled dreams
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
by jingo by gee by gosh by gum

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

sky lavender and cornerless, the 
children guessed(but only a few
are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds 

all by all and deep by deep
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
but
the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls 

when by now and tree by leaf
paler be they than daunting death 

And death i think is no parenthesis
running from marbles and 
piracies and it’s 
riding the echo down

for life’s not a paragraph
while Spring is in the world
and
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(sleep wake hope and then)they
laugh, leaning back in my arms

how do you like your blue-eyed boy
Mister Death
she laughed his joy she cried his grief

sun moon stars rain
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
will never wholly kiss you;

(though love be a day
and life be nothing,it shall not stop kissing).

I’d rather learn from one bird how to sing
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
how children are apt to forget to remember
how much said she
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance

.

::

This was a time-consuming BLAST. It’s a Cento, cobbled solely from poems by E.E. Cummings.
For day 30 for NaPoWriMo.

Day Thirty

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