Tongues Wrangled Dark At A

Sometime They'll Give A War And Nobody Will Come.

Poetry Is A Packsack Of Invisible Keepsakes.

Whenever A People Or An Institution Forget Its Hard Beginnings, It Is Beginning To Decay.

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.

Time Is The Coin Of Our Live. We Must Take Care How We Spend It.