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Poem	I was a gun-smith in Odessa. One night the police broke in the room Where a group of us were reading Spencer. And seized our books and arrested us. But I escaped and came to New York And thence to Chicago, and then to Spoon River, Where I could study my Kant in peace And eke out a living repairing guns! Look at my moulds! My architectonics! One for a barrel, one for a hammer, And others for other parts of a gun! Well, now suppose no gun-smith living Had anything else but duplicate moulds Of these I show you -- well, all guns Would be just alike, with a hammer to hit The cap and a barrel to carry the shot, All acting alike for themselves, and all Acting against each other alike. And there would be your world of guns! Which nothing could ever free from itself Except a Moulder with different moulds To mould the metal over.
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