E. E. Cummings

The Mind Is Its Own Beautiful Prisoner

the mind is its own beautiful prisoner. Mind 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.

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