"This isn’t a poem. This is two men in grey prison clothes. One man sits looking at the sick flesh of his hands—hands that haven’t worked for seven years. Do you know how long a year is? Do you know how many hours there are in a day when a day is twenty-three hours on a cot in a cell, in a cell in a row of cells in a tier of rows of cells all empty with the choked emptiness of dreams? Do you know the dreams of men in jail? They are dead now. The black automatons have won. They are burned up utterly their flesh has passed into the air of Massachusetts their dreams have passed into the wind. “They are dead now,” the Governor’s secretary nudges the Governor, “They are dead now,” the Superior Court Judge nudges the Supreme Court Judge, “They are dead now” the College President nudges the College President. A dry chuckling comes up from all the dead:The white collar dead; the silkhatted dead; the frockcoated dead They hop in and out of automobiles breathe deep in relief as they walk up and down the Boston streets. they are free of dreams now free of greasy prison denim their voices blow back in a thousand lingoes singing one song to burst the eardrums of Massachusetts"