The cry of those being eaten by America,
Others pale and soft being stored for later eating
And Jefferson
Who saw hope in new oats
The wild houses go on
With long hair growing from between their toes
The feet at night get up
And run down the long white roads by themselves
The dams reverse themselves and want to go stand alone in the desert
Ministers who dive headfirst into the earth
The pale flesh
Spreading guiltily into literatures
That is why these poems are so sad
The long dead running over the fields
The mass sinking down
The light in children's faces fading at six or seven
The world will soon break up into small colonies of the saved
(1966)
I started to develop a passion for 1960s American poets lately. I guess it was a very special moment in hystory, their struggles in writing resonate to my daily struggles in 2009, only less energy and vision on my side. They are my heroes these days.
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