my love is building a building
around you,a frail slippery
house,a strong fragile house
(beginning at the singular beginningof your smile)a skillful uncouth
prison,a precise clumsy
prison(building thatandthis into Thus,
Around the reckless magic of your mouth)my love is building a magic,a discrete
tower of magic and(as i guess)when Farmer Death(whom fairies hate)shall
crumble the mouth-flower fleet
He’ll not my tower,
laborious,casualwhere the surrounded smile
hangs
breathless
—E. E. Cummings
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