الشاعر جيمس رايت

,In the Shreve High football stadium ,I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville ,And gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood ,And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel

,Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly ,Asleep on the black trunk .Blowing like a leaf in green shadow ,Down the ravine behind the empty house

.She's gone. She was my love, my moon or more ,She chased the chickens out and swept the floor ,Emptied the bones and nut-shells after feasts .And smacked the kids for leaping up like beasts

Those old Winnebago men .Knew what they were singing

,Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota .Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass And the eyes of those two Indian ponies .Darken with kindness

,All right. Try this Then. Every body ,I know and care for And every body