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 journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.

I take you and pile high the memories. Death will break her claws on some I keep.

Poetry is a projection across silence of cadences arranged to break that silence with definite intentions of echoes, syllables, wave lengths.

In democracy both a deep reverence and a sense of the comic are requisite.

You know being born is important to you. You know nothing else was ever so important to you.

And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.