After The Sunset On The Prairie, There

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

The People Know What The Land Knows.

Corn Wind In The Fall, Come Off The Black Lands, Come Off The Whisper Of The Silk Hangers, The Lap Of The Flat Spear Leaves.

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.

God, Let Me Remember All Good Losers.