pity this busy monster manunkind
not. progress is a comfortable disease,
your victim (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 'til unwish
returns on its unself. a world of made
is not a world of born--pity poor flesh
and trees, poor stars and stone,
but never this fine specimen of hypermagical
ultraomnipotence. we doctors know
a hopeless case if--listen!there's a hellofagood universe next door. let's go

another e. e. cummings poem on the same theme as that posted by LEJ: not as beautiful imagery, but much more bitter. I think I got all the words right; the line breaks I'm not sure of.

--seed