For one writer, the radio
Playing on his kitchen counter,
Something like fifty years ago,
Was the voice of a true doubter
That didn’t fill but tore a hole
In quiet for future’s power
To invade, like a cold wind blows
Through any chinks it encounters.
Tomorrow! roared the radio,
Any lone pulse that still flounders
Will belong to someone who knows
Invention operates downward.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.