I was in seventh grade, in Connecticut, when we read this poem in class. I remember everything about that moment: the open book; the type; the afternoon winter light; the narrative voice; the play of words. Cummings was my first love.
I was in seventh grade, in Connecticut, when we read this poem in class. I remember everything about that moment: the open book; the type; the afternoon winter light; the narrative voice; the play of words. Cummings was my first love.