Pick Offs by Carl Sandburg
THE TELESCOPE picks off star dust on the clean steel sky and sends it to me. The telephone picks off my voice and sends it cross country a thousand miles. The eyes in my head pick off pages of Napoleon memoirs … a rag handler, a head of dreams walks in a sheet of mist … the palace panels shut in nobodies drinking nothings out of silver helmets … in the end we all come to a rock island and the hold of the sea-walls.
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