pity this busy monster, manunkind
by e.e. cummings
pity this busy monster, manunkind,
not. progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim (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 till 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
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