the other guineahen died of a broken heart and we came to New York. I used to sit at a table,drawing wings with a pencil that kept breaking and i kept remembering how your mind looked when it slept for several years,to wake up asking why. So then you turned into a photograph of somebody who’s trying not to laugh at somebody who’s trying not to cry
E. E. Cummings (2001). “Etcetera: The Unpublished Poems of E. E. Cummings”, p.25, W. W. Norton & Company
