E. E. Cummings

The Phonograph’s Voice Like A Keen Spider Skipping

(the phonograph’s voice like a keen spider skipping quickly over patriotic swill. The,negress,in the,rocker by the,curb,tipping and tipping,the flocks of pigeons.  And the skil- ful loneliness,and the rather fat man in bluishsuspenders half-reading the Evening Something in the normal window.  and a cat. A cat waiting for god knows makes me wonder if i’m alive(eye pries, not open.  Tail stirs.)  And the. fire-escapes— the night. makes me wonder if,if i am the face of a baby smeared with beautiful jam or my invincible Nearness rapes laughter from your preferable,eyes

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