my love is building a building
around you, a frail slippery
house, a strong fragile house
(beginning at the singular beginning
of your smile) a skillful uncouth
prison, a precise clumsy
prison (building that and this 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, casual
where the surrounded smile
hangs
breathless
e e cummings
