Tuesday, March 2, 2010

769. MUMFORD

MUMFORD
I wish no city beautiful. I sit in
no gilded manse. Parlor house and
sitting room, together they tumble -
like sheaves of Chicago wheat down the
shutter-shaft. What we most try to do
is disappear. I want no civic maelstrom,
at least from here. The Dawn has its sunrise
disciples. The Night has its sunset foes.
I want no city beautiful; I want
what comes and goes.

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