The unborn image, like a mislaid memory,
     Lingers near the edge of my intransient mind.
Stranded in the hostile air
    Of the Union Carbide factory town:
          Breaths of pollution like hate,
 Small and bitter, afraid.
People that call forth adjectives plenteous
As the gray film that tumbles
     From smokestacks,
     Lies thick on every roof,
     Suffocates every dream,
Leaves the lawns as despoiled patches
Of brown, sprouting only occasional,
    hearty,
                         ugly,
                          useless
          Dark green shoots.
Indescribable people,
     Choked as their plants,
     Minds slurring statements into weeds,
     Bitter tasting, bilious patches of green,
Under the blackened brick shadow
     Of that great smoke-emitting box,
     Squat against the shadow of the hill.

9/24/81

Index     Epiphany 1967