The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over the harbor and city on silent haunches, and then moves on. - Carl Sandburg

I am stone and steel of your sleeping numbers;
I remember all you forget.
I will die as many times
as you make me over again.

And even now she beats her head against the bars in the same old way and wonders if there is a bigger place the railroads run to from Chicago where maybe there is
romance
and big things
and real dreams
that never go smash.

Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during a moment.