Populist

I dreamed myself of their people, I am of their people, I thought they watched me that I watched them that they watched the sun and the clouds for the cities are no longer mine    image    images of existence    (or song of myself?)    and the roads for the light in the rear-view mirror is not death but the light of other lives tho if I stumble on a rock I speak of rock if I am to say    anything      anything if I am to tell of myself    splendor of the roads    secrecy of paths for a word like a glass sphere encloses the word opening and opening myself and I am sick for a moment with fear let the magic infants speak we who have brought steel and stone again and again into the cities in that word blind word must speak and speak the magic infants’ speech driving northward the populist north slowly in the sunrise the lapping of shallow waters tongues of the inlets glisten like fur in the low tides all that childhood envied the sounds of the ocean over the flatlands poems piers foolhardy structures and the lives the ingenious lives the winds squall from the grazing ranches’ wandering fences young workmen’s loneliness on the structures has touched and touched the heavy tools    tools in our hands in the clamorous country birth- light savage light of the landscape magic page the magic infants speak