Robert Bly

My dear children, do you remember the morning When we climbed into the old Plymouth And drove west straight toward the Pacific? We were all the people there were. We followed Dylan's songs all the way west. It was Seventy; the war was over, almost; And we were driving to the sea. We had closed the farm, tucked in The flap, and were eating the honey Of distance and the word "there." Oh whee, we're gonna fly Down into the easy chair . We sang that Over and over. That's what the early Seventies were like. We weren't afraid. And a hole had opened in the world. We laughed at Las Vegas. There was enough gaiety For all of us, and ahead of us was The ocean. Tomorrow's The day my bride's gonna come . And the war was over, almost.

I I am driving; it is dusk; Minnesota. The stubble field catches the last growth of sun. The soybeans are breathing on all sides. Old men are sitting before their houses on car seats In the small towns. I am happy, The moon rising above the turkey sheds. II The small world of the car Plunges through the deep fields of the night, On the road from Willmar to Milan. This solitude covered with iron Moves through the fields of night Penetrated by the noise of crickets. III Nearly to Milan, suddenly a small bridge, And water kneeling in the moonlight. In small towns the houses are built right on the ground; The lamplight falls on all fours on the grass. When I reach the river, the full moon covers it. A few people are talking, low, in a boat.

We drive between lakes just turning green; Late June. The white turkeys have been moved A second time to new grass. How long the seconds are in great pain! Terror just before death, Shoulders torn, shot From helicopters. “I saw the boy being tortured with a telephone generator,” The sergeant said. “I felt sorry for him And blew his head off with a shotgun.” These instants become crystals, Particles The grass cannot dissolve. Our own gaiety Will end up In Asia, and you will look down in your cup And see Black Starfighters. Our own cities were the ones we wanted to bomb! Therefore we will have to Go far away To atone For the suffering of the stringy-chested And the short rice-fed ones, quivering In the helicopter like wild animals, Shot in the chest, taken back to be questioned.