rhetorical break up of an ee cummings poem

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are
-- things which enclose me,
-- or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself
as Spring opens (touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if you wish be to close me,
i and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility
whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;
only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands