Last night on the sports channel
I watched the rodeo.
Those cowboys have it right;
the best and the beauty of it.
The blackthorn was his father's,
a piece of Ireland
that the old man could still get his hands around
even as his hands grew weak,
Somewhere in Forster—was it Aspects of the Novel?—
there's something to the effect of,
How can I tell what I think till I see what I say?
I've always meant to check the quote, but I'm half afraid
The perfect American Beauty Rose,
is it diminished
by the slag heaps on Rt. 11, just west
of Scranton, or by the dark cloud