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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