I Have Written Some Poetry That I

Hog Butcher For The World, Tool Maker, Stacker Of Wheat, Player With Railroads And The Nation's Freight Handler; Stormy, Husky, Brawling, City Of Big Shoulders.

And Even Now She Beats Her Head Against The Bars In The Same Old Way And Wonders If There Is A Bigger Place The Railroads Run To From Chicago Where Maybe There Is Romance And Big Things And Real Dreams That Never Go Smash.

Who Else Speaks For The Family Of Man? They Are In Tune And Step With Constellations Of Universal Law.

Poetry Is Any Page From A Sketchbook Of Outlines Of A Doorknob With Thumb-prints Of Dust, Blood, Dreams.

Poetry Is A Projection Across Silence Of Cadences Arranged To Break That Silence With Definite Intentions Of Echoes, Syllables, Wave Lengths.