The Shovel Is The Brother To The

Didn't You Tie The Mittens On Her Feet (wednesday Evening's) Extra Special Nice? Yes--she Is An Extra Special Nice Pigeon. She Cries For Pity When She Wants Pity. And She Shuts Her Eyes When She Doesn't Want To Look At You. And If You Look Deep In Her Eyes When Her Eyes Are Open You Will See Lights There Exactly Like The Lights On The Pastures And The Meadows When The Mist Is Drifting On A Wednesday Evening Just Between The Twilight And Gloaming.

I Have In Later Years Taken To Euclid, Whitehead, Bertrand Russell, In An Elemental Way.

Often I Look Back And See That I Had Been Many Kinds Of A Fool-and That I Had Been Happy In Being This Or That Kind Of Fool.

Poetry Is The Journal Of The Sea Animal Living On Land, Wanting To Fly In The Air. Poetry Is A Search For Syllables To Shoot At The Barriers Of The Unknown And The Unknowable. Poetry Is A Phantom Script Telling How Rainbows Are Made And Why They Go Away.

Here Is The Difference Between Dante, Milton, And Me. They Wrote About Hell And Never Saw The Place. I Wrote About Chicago After Looking The Town Over For Years And Years.