“75. The warehouses, spills, heaps, strews, broken waste” in “Musing”
75.
The warehouses, spills, heaps, strews, broken waste
Crouch in the marshes across from Manhattan
The dead trees by the track I peer through
And squint as if I could see the natives
Watching Verrazzano from the shore
From marshes, beaches, woods as clean as trust
Under a blue sky. We are stalled in Secaucus
As far from Rouen, Avignon and Genoa
As Ulan Bator: the Indians are driven out
And the chain-link and leaning telephone poles
Tell little of my ancestor chased out of the Bronx —
And he died much later in Middletown —
Or of a beloved. In such dumping, scarring
Are songs false purity, virtual, askance?
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