e.e. cummings






pity this busy monster,manunkind,
not.  Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victum(death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness
- electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange;lenses extend

unwish through curving wherewhen until unwish
returns on its unself.      
    
			          A world of made
is not a world of born-pity poor flesh

and trees,poor stars and stones,but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence.  We doctors know

a hopeless case if-listen:there's a hell
of a good universe next door;let's go