for e.e. cummings

i have strange dreams about you, 

where you stand in such a darkness

and the light around you is dim;

unsmiling, you watch me

and talk about violence.

we exchanged voices, without a melody to our sounds

and once you turned your back with pen in fingers to paper on your lap, 

i only then understood what you'd been hammering on about.

your eyes have a silence, so tenderly lonely,

 like you know no other way to keep;

but your words i carry them with me like memories, 

they dance in my mental wilderness

all i can do is let them wander astray,

 for who could hold such beauty in its place