Feign a great calm; all gay transport soon ends. Chant: who knows— flight’s end or flight’s beginning for the resting gull? Heart, be still. Say there is money but it rusted; say the time of moon is not right for escape. It’s the color in the lower sky too broadly suffused, or the wind in my tie. Know amazedly how often one takes his madness into his own hands and keeps it.
Lorine Niedecker's poetry was sort of discovered by accident as freshman in college. Her poems feel so familiar and safe - and then she hits you over the head with some twist of words or imagery that sticks.