The balladeer of the town he left behind
To become the balladeer of the town
He left behind understood what we also
Understand: in North America, this blossom,
This flower of a continent, swaying on its stem,
You have to begin in the east, someone knowing
Nothing, in order to head out west and find
Magic in the broken spine, the House of Dust,
The promised land, the emptiness. If you were
To start from knowing the desert, the plains,
You would be more beautiful but never capable
Of seeing the center and the end as blanks
That could be wondrous monstrous to attend.
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