The Mind Is Its Own Beautiful Prisoner

E. E. Cummings

the mind is its own beautiful prisoner.
Mind looked long at the sticky moon
opening in dusk her new wings

then decently hanged himself,one afternoon.

The last thing he saw was you
naked amid unnaked things,

your flesh,a succinct wandlike animal,
a little strolling with the futile purr
of blood;your sex squeaked like a billiard-cue
chalking itself,as not to make an error,
with twists spontaneously methodical.
He suddenly tasted worms windows and roses

he laughed,and closed his eyes as a girl closes
her left hand upon a mirror.

Next 10 Poems

• E. E. Cummings : The Moon Is Hiding In
• E. E. Cummings : The Phonograph's Voice Like A Keen Spider Skipping
• E. E. Cummings : The Poem Her Belly Marched Through Me As
• E. E. Cummings : The Rose
• E. E. Cummings : The Skinny Voice
• E. E. Cummings : The Sky A Silver
• E. E. Cummings : The Sky Was
• E. E. Cummings : The Wind Is A Lady With
• E. E. Cummings : There Is A
• E. E. Cummings : This Is The Garden:colours Come And Go

Previous 10 Poems

• E. E. Cummings : The Hours Rise Up Putting Off Stars And It Is
• E. E. Cummings : The Hills
• E. E. Cummings : The Glory Is Fallen Out Of
• E. E. Cummings : The Emperor
• E. E. Cummings : The Eagle
• E. E. Cummings : The Cambridge Ladies Who Live In Furnished Souls
• E. E. Cummings : The Bigness Of Cannon
• E. E. Cummings : The Bed Is Not Very Big
• E. E. Cummings : Take For Example This
• E. E. Cummings : Ta