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.

Poetry is the establishment of a metaphorical link between white butterfly-wings and the scraps of torn-up love-letters.

I remember the Chillicothe ballplayers grappling the Long Island ball players in a sixteen-inning game ended by darkness. And the shoulders of the Chillicothe players were a red smoke against the sundown and the shoulders of the Rock Island players were a yellow smoke against the sundown. And the umpire's voice was hoarse calling balls and strikes and outs and the umpire's throat fought in the dust for a song.

Two bubbles found they had rainbows on their curves. They flickered out saying: "It was worth being a bubble, just to have held that rainbow thirty seconds.

The past is a bucket of ashes

Poetry is a dance music measuring buck-and-wing follies along with the gravest and stateliest dead-marches.

I fell in love, not deep, but I fell several times and then fell out.