Today's poem is by Kevin McFadden
I can see the entire destiny of America contained in the first
Puritan who came ashore. Alexis de Tocqueville
The first Puritan who came ashore
trips. He's a Noah, Mr. Whiteface Tour-
ist, he hurries a footpath, crewman
to his craft. He pours water in. Ahem.
Amen. Ah, the outset wraps horrific
(warps horrific) to mute heathen as
he shoots them criteria. A pawn, fur
carrier, he's white out of phantasm,
he's white out of an archer's armpit.
He's a Scorpio, a turfman, there with
photos (Africa's hue). Anthem writer,
he can eat his firearms to throw up.
Oh, his fences are without rampart
for now. His pure, trite tea has mach-
ines to warm it, fresh. A hut poacher
(his supreme wit, a thatch-roof near
matches) he waits for open-air hurt
to come. He rips with nature, has far
hopes, humor. A fate is written, char-
proof. A heartache is written, hums
a patriarch, whose form is the tune
"Wipe Out." He's a harmonist, Herr Fact,
Monsieur Wasp. Oh, faith chatterer,
a whorer in fact, he imports the USA,
true whim. Catastrophe-fashioner,
he ushers in a camera (how Fort Pitt
was one). Art, triumph: he aches for it.
Hiroshima. Statecraft whereupon
war's a first pitch, a hereunto home.
He is written of, our hatcher, a map's
craftsman, a pious hero there with
a trump or two in his feathers, each
sort of new at rapture, his Him, each
one a part few hum. Histories chart
after his hurt. He's an atomic power.
Copyright © 2006 Kevin McFadden All rights reserved
from Quarterly West
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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