The West

(Driving Through Suburbia)

When you drive through a suburb,
You see the ghosts of the land:
Pines standing free and open,
Avenues of young maples, planted after the wars,
Lining the streets of Prospero
who stilled the Tempest,
Bringing a multitude ashore.
The daily demands are what ruin us in the end,
Rend our dreams,
Tear down a perfect memory,
Erect the malnourished temples and leave empty vistas,
Looking upon emptiness;
Spotlights trained upon the sky of our birth.

We trade so much,
Before realizing what we are left with:
A shambles, an assortment, a collection
that does not cohere,
But disguises our foundations and muffles all conviction.

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After WWI, many writers in the 1920s thought the stars had been torn down. They may have been right.