I adore this poem.

anyone lived in a pretty how town
by e. e. cummings

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did


Women and men (both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain


children guessed (but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more


when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her


someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then) they
said their nevers they slept their dream


stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)


one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was


all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.


Women and men (both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain




From Complete Poems: 1904-1962 by E. E. Cummings, edited by George J. Firmage. Used with the permission of Liveright Publishing Corporation. Copyright © 1923, 1931, 1935, 1940, 1951, 1959, 1963, 1968, 1991 by the Trustees for the E. E. Cummings Trust. Copyright © 1976, 1978, 1979 by George James Firmage.

nephilium mortuus

boundaries like pillars of salt riddle the wastelands before us
there are no answers
there are no answers
girding lions in the nephilium
sepulchri nos nobis domine eris
respondeundum est mihi, ne fio mortuus.
respond I must, lest I become as death.
some things are no longer voluntary
Adonai, tuorum non mihi dominst quod liber sum, liber, liberi, libri.
and saying it makes it so
and saying it makes it so
belief strings together pulling us through the gaps
reality spills, etching patterns of pitted scars
explosions on the plains of madness
there are no answers
and saying it makes it so
respond I must, for some things are no longer voluntary
I have become as death
I have become as death
your god is not my master because i am free, i am free, a book, a child.
-cobalt ciar, 1992