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

tribute.

such stainless wordsmithing
one would think mary calculated,
springing forth messiah and did
rain down from up on her knees,
reaching for the poetic moon
while the sun shined up in her
womb. but no - simply cummings
going with dust tracks at his
newborned swept notebook. would
that we could sweep
such a trail of immaculate concepts.


happy national poetry month!