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Now reading
Dissertation on the Detroit Free Press
For my vacation, I thought like Silas
Marner, being my own miser of the past,
To revisit what Craven calls "the good
People of Detroit." I went elsewhere.
Why. is it that the voyage is always
Consummated in speech: travel is
Silent, plans profound, original ways of looking.
Who left this copy of the Detroit
Free Press, on this seat where I shall
-If the engineer keeps his pledge-
Spend seven hours watching cities
Tossed away like memories, hustled
So that I have to tell myself that this
Tempus of existence, rather a tempest
Is life, with all these people I am
Living through their lives.
I offer you a candle, old-fashioned
Fidelity, on your grave, O lonely dead,
To whom unhappiness no longer makes a difference.
These flowers, which I do not bear, I drop
On your tombstone, so that could you hear me
As I date say you do, in this wilderness
You would be proud of a gift
Who always gave.
I like the amateur
Homeliness with which this paper is written.
I can see the reporters trying to
Impress themselves, the very words are
Rough-edged, the ink is impermanent.
That is the Middle West. Friendliness.
Even Ford is just a unit in production
Homely, dazzling nobody with his headlights.
Since I am at your grave, I want
To beg of your incredible goodness, the
Flowers I gave you. I want to give them to
The living, a loyalty like your own.
Without commitments, life go hang.
I am looking for the person you want me to
Give these to. Before I am dispensable.
Now as the train rounds a curve, I see
The engineer who impels our movement.
Only at the curve, perhaps, do we realize
The impetus with which our goal is driven.