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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=415269" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Minneapolis Poem</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">to John Logan</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>1 <br>I wonder how many old men last winter <br>Hungry and frightened by namelessness prowled <br>The Mississippi shore <br>Lashed blind by the wind, dreaming <br>Of suicide in the river. <br>The police remove their cadavers by daybreak <br>And turn them in somewhere. <br>Where? <br>How does the city keep lists of its fathers <br>Who have no names? <br>By Nicollet Island I gaze down at the dark water <br>So beautifully slow. <br>And I wish my brothers good luck <br>And a warm grave. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>2 <br>The Chippewa young men <br>Stab one another shrieking <br>Jesus Christ. <br>Split-lipped homosexuals limp in terror of assault. <br>High school backfields search under benches <br>Near the Post Office. Their faces are the rich <br>Raw bacon without eyes. <br>The Walker Art Center crowd stare <br>At the Guthrie Theater. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>3 <br>Tall Negro girls from Chicago <br>Listen to light songs. <br>They know when the supposed patron <br>Is a plainclothesman. <br>A cop’s palm <br>Is a roach dangling down the scorched fangs <br>Of a light bulb. <br>The soul of a cop’s eyes <br>Is an eternity of Sunday daybreak in the suburbs <br>Of Juárez, Mexico. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>4 <br>The legless beggars are gone, carried away <br>By white birds. <br>The Artificial Limbs Exchange is gutted <br>And sown with lime. <br>The whalebone crutches and hand-me-down trusses <br>Huddle together dreaming in a desolation <br>Of dry groins. <br>I think of poor men astonished to waken <br>Exposed in broad daylight by the blade <br>Of a strange plough. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>5 <br>All over the walls of comb cells <br>Automobiles perfumed and blindered <br>Consent with a mutter of high good humor <br>To take their two naps a day. <br>Without sound windows glide back <br>Into dusk. <br>The sockets of a thousand blind bee graves tier upon tier <br>Tower not quite toppling. <br>There are men in this city who labor dawn after dawn <br>To sell me my death. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>6 <br>But I could not bear <br>To allow my poor brother my body to die <br>In Minneapolis. <br>The old man Walt Whitman our countryman <br>Is now in America our country <br>Dead. <br>But he was not buried in Minneapolis <br>At least. <br>And no more may I be Please God. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>7 <br>I want to be lifted up <br>By some great white bird unknown to the police, <br>And soar for a thousand miles and be carefully hidden <br>Modest and golden as one last corn grain, <br>Stored with the secrets of the wheat and the mysterious lives <br>Of the unnamed poor.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=James+Arlington+Wright">James Arlington Wright</a><div class=q>
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1 
I wonder how many old men last winter 
Hungry and frightened by namelessness prowled 
The Mississippi shore 
Lashed blind by the wind, dreaming 
Of suicide in the river. 
The police remove their cadavers by daybreak 
And turn th..."></div>
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