Your private view, my questions of nothingness
Your colony of artists in an unromantic city
My question, without answer; the foot of your page
Your new list, a white board for place and purpose
Of landscape and society, of energy (my word)
Of history and a sense of loss
That Americans can hardly imagine
The desolate mid west, the dust bowls
The world at war with new found proclaimers
The stains are almost gone. Your ancestors
And many many more, have left behind
All that you now most earnestly seek to re-establish
