The hoar-frost crumbles in the sun,
  The crisping steam of a train
Melts in the air, while two black birds
  Sweep past the window again.

Along the vacant road, a red
  Bicycle approaches; I wait
In a thaw of anxiety, for the boy
  To leap down at our gate.

He has passed us by; but is it
  Relief that starts in my breast?
Or a deeper bruise of knowing that still
  She has no rest.

 

My Mind Is
E. E. Cummings
my mind is
a big hunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and
taste and smell and hearing and sight keep hitting and
chipping with sharp fatal tools
in an agony of sensual chisels i perform squirms of
chrome and execute strides of cobalt
nevertheless i
feel that i cleverly am being altered that i slightly am
becoming something a little different, in fact
myself
Hereupon helpless i utter lilac shrieks and scarlet
bellowings.

Online text © 1998-2008 Poetry X. All rights 
reserved.
From XLI Poems | Dial Press, 
1925