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  • Anyone who has crossed the footbridge over I-94 between the Walker Sculpture Garden and Loring Park has read the prose poem there. Affixed in mailbox lettering along the topmost girder, one can’t help reading it as one traverses, looking up the whole way as the poem ladders forth in sections, in phrases, from approach to landing, the traffic rushing like a river below. Surely the poem calls forth different responses from everyone who reads it, but few are left untouched by its words, especiall…
  • Anyone who has crossed the footbridge over I-94 between the Walker Sculpture Garden and Loring Park has read the prose poem there. Affixed in mailbox lettering along the topmost girder, one can’t help reading it as one traverses, looking up the whole way as the poem ladders forth in sections, in phrases, from approach to landing, the traffic rushing like a river below. Surely the poem calls forth different responses from everyone who reads it, but few are left untouched by its words, especiall…
  • Anyone who has crossed the footbridge over I-94 between the Walker Sculpture Garden and Loring Park has read the prose poem there. Affixed in mailbox lettering along the topmost girder, one can’t help reading it as one traverses, looking up the whole way as the poem ladders forth in sections, in phrases, from approach to landing, the traffic rushing like a river below. Surely the poem calls forth different responses from everyone who reads it, but few are left untouched by its words, especiall…
  • Anyone who has crossed the footbridge over I-94 between the Walker Sculpture Garden and Loring Park has read the poem there. Affixed in mailbox lettering along the topmost girder, one can’t help reading it as one traverses, looking up the whole way as the poem ladders forth in sections, in phrases, from approach to landing, the traffic rushing like a river below. Surely the poem calls forth different responses from everyone who reads it, but few are left untouched by its words, especially the …
  • Anyone who has crossed the footbridge over I-94 between the Walker Sculpture Garden and Loring Park has read the poem there. Affixed in mailbox lettering along the topmost girder, one can’t help reading it as one traverses, looking up the whole way as the poem ladders forth in sections, in phrases, from approach to landing, the traffic rushing like a river below. Surely the poem calls forth different responses from everyone who reads it, but few are left untouched by its words, especially the …
  • The Mind Will Wander —as water will seep; as mice will yonder creep the clover deep and still nose home; as a wren will dither daily in the dome and remember the nest’s address; as honeybees comb September for pollen—so the mind will wander between the lines (of music or news or conversation), will spend attention on wonder’s fine wines, will even tend toward understanding, and, swollen with booty or duty or beauty, survive to wend a way back to the studious hive and the subject…