". . . it's no use trying to pretend that mostpeople and ourselves are alike," Cummings writes in his Introduction. "Mostpeople have less in common with ourselves than the squarerootofminusone. You and I are human beings;mostpeople are snobs."

Cummings is not for everyone, and thus as not-mostpeople, we are invited into a world where shedding logic and rules of grammar and punctuation are a necessary element in the dance into his world of deeply felt emotion.

"Miracles are to come," he promises. "With you I leave a remembrance of miracles:they are by somebody who can love and who shall be continually reborn,a human being;somebody who said to those near him, when his fingers would not hold a brush 'tie it into my hand' . . ."

Cummings paints vast word landscapes, bringing me to a quiet, thoughtful place, where my heart can rest -- or happily stirs my carnal yearnings. ( )