through welcoming sweet miracles of air
(and joyfully all truths of wing resuming)
selves, into infinite tomorrow steer
--souls under whom flew(mountain valley forest)
a million wheres which never may become
one(wholly strange;familiar wholly)dearest
more than reality of more than dream--
how should contented fools of fact envision
the mystery of freedom?yet,among
their loud exactitudes of imprecision,
you'll(silently alighting)and i'll sing
while at us very deafly a most stares
colossal hoax of clocks and calendars.
(e.e. cummings)
love,
j
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