The History of America

—for Paul Metcalf A linear projection: a route. It crosses The ocean in many ships. Arriving in the new Land, it cuts through and down forests and it Keeps moving. Terrain: Rock, weaponry. Dark trees, mastery. Grass, to yield. Earth, Reproachful. Fox, bear, coon, wildcat Prowl gloomily, it kills them, it skins them, Its language alters, no account varmint, its Teeth set, nothing defeats its obsession, it becomes A snake in the reedy river. Spits and prays, Keeps moving. Behind it, a steel track. Cold, Permanent. Not permanent. It will decay. This Does not matter, it does not actually care, Murdering the buffalo, driving the laggard regiments, The caring was a necessary myth, an eagle like A speck in heaven dives. The line believes That the entire wrinkled mountain range is the Eagle’s nest, and everything tumbles in place. It buries its balls at Wounded Knee, it rushes Gold, it gambles. It buys plastics. Another Ocean stops it. Soon, soon, up by its roots, Severed, irrecoverably torn, that does not matter, It decides, perpendicular from here: escape. A prior circle: a mouth. It is nowhere, Everywhere, swollen, warm. Expanding and contracting It absorbs and projects children, jungles, Black shoes, pennies, blood. It speaks Too many dark, suffering languages. Reaching a hand Toward its throat, you disappear entirely. No Wonder you fear this bleeding pulse, no wonder.