Chicago Poems

140. Letters to Dead Imagists EMILY DICKINSON: YOU gave us the bumble bee who has a soul, The everlasting traveler among the hollyhocks, And how God plays around a back yard garden.

STEVIE CRANE: War is kind and we never knew the kindness of war till you came; Nor the black riders and clashes of spear and shield out of the sea, 5 Nor the mumblings and shots that rise from dreams on call.

134. The Noon Hour She sits in the dust at the walls And makes cigars, Bending at the bench With fingers wage-anxious, Changing her sweat for the day’s pay.

Now the noon hour has come, And she leans with her bare arms On the window-sill over the river, Leans and feels at her throat Cool-moving things out of the free open ways:

At her throat and eyes and nostrils The touch and the blowing cool Of great free ways beyond the walls.