pity this busy monster, manunkind

here's a poem that i rather like, although i don't claim to know precisely the mind of the poet, that shunner of capitalization, e.e. cummings. a real tounge-tied poem this is.

pity this busy monster,manunkind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victum(death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness
—electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange;lenses extend

unwish through curving wherewhen until unwish
returns on its unself.
A world of made
is not a world of born-pity poor flesh

and trees,poor stars and stones,but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical
ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

a hopeless case if—listen:there's a hell
of a good universe next door;let's go

— e. e. cummings