I

                        A north town, north in mountains 
                        the beavering trappers cached—
                        one—two-hundred years ago—
                        the religion house, in a good sky, 
                        the two-hat temple brimmed 
                        in roofy granite, and blacksmith tin. 
                                                On a citadel hill, 
                        brown reddish—white yellow—
                        a college, and heights the trees seized, 
                        and windows. And hanging there, paunched in history,
            bankers and regents portraits, business and science 
apostles’ faces—presidents staring, while adolescent eyes
up from town, transcripted from their desks, worry to see,
from high schools, the oils of library rays, 
                                    pencilling What to take—
                                    and the library sign 
                        bearish and sear, neglected, funny 
            WITH ALL THY GETTING, GET UNDERSTANDING—
                                    and downtown 
the minimum wage and savings voices—Study 
                        anything—you want… business, forestry, 
law—anything, please—but art. The out ones 
                        are out in art—art and writing .. . 
I’d rather see you in service first—mechanic, janitor—
                        I don’t care what you do—outside of art, 
or leaving the church . . . 
                        English, science, music, teaching—anything—
but art . . . or writing—
                        radio, TV, acting—
the out ones are out in art . . . We understand—
                        each other . . .

II 

                                    How orchards sprang 
                                                Dark into blossom! 
                                    Cellar jelly, kitchens in leaves, 
                                                and that girl—
                                    What was her name? 
                                                Who turned, 
                                    She and her boyfriend, 
                                                And moved, 
                                    And went away 
                                                When orchards sprang 
                                    Dark in mother’s eyes 
                                                and sunlight lined 
                                    Dead fathers 
shipping to war, and back from war 
            one two three four five six seven eight times!
over and back—counting over and back—
            two wars—and Korea and Vietnam—
over and back—eight times! 
                                    Dead fathers 
                        on the city and county plaques 
            in a north town in the mountains.