may i feel

Following my earlier post on the poetry of ee cummings here, 

I've stumbled upon yet another one of his love poems that borders more on the physical side of love that America's second most popular poet writes prolific. 

 

may i feel said he 

may i feel said he (i'll squeal said she, just once said he) 

it's fun said she (may i touch said he, how much said she, a lot said he) 

why not said she (let's go said he, not too far said she, what's too far said he, where you are said she) 

may i stay said he (which way said she, like this said he, if you kiss said she, may i move said he, is it love said she) 

if you're willing said he (but you're killing said she, but it's life said he, but your wife said she, now said he) 

ow said she (tiptop said he, don't stop said she, oh no said he) go slow said she, (cccome? said he, ummm said she) you're divine! said he (you are Mine said she)

Cummings always considered himself just as much a painter as he was a poet or writer. Especially in his later years, spent at his home in New Hampshire, Cummings would paint during the day and then write at night. Beginning with his years at Harvard and continuing on into the 1920s, Cummings identified with the artistic movements of Cubism, Dada, and Surrealism. He particularly admired the work of Pablo Picasso. 

 It's also his birthday today. Happy Birthday Edward Estlin Cummings. What a love fiend you are.