In the side-lanes of the Alleghenies,
where they put tunnels through hills
and call them mountains, and where
once the colonials were forbidden by
the British to venture past, I find the
hidden glory of hundreds of hidden
things. Secret variations of the gardens
of Looney Tunes. Stuffed bears in
old campsite cages, and chicken coops
turned into stories of men and women.
At the first evening light they start
writing down the treasures of old
grandma stories while I search in
vain, through ancient old libraries,
for something - anything - to read.
Give me Anne Waldman, or Sylvia
Plath, or any old Elizabeth Bishop
drivel. There's nothing but farm tales
and coal-miner stories; the collected
work of one 'Edelmantus Prevactus',
an old Swedish farmer of light.