THE WESTERN WORLD

What buckaroo, riding our pinto sky,
Rounds up the zodiac cattle, star-rustling?
He grips, held still between his knees,
His mustang's blue flanks splashed with cloud

And all its bucking is motionless.
Arched over us, through time and space
He rides, no closer to his cows,
While the slow circling beasts move on

Motionless too. Our earth is hard to sit,
Plain hell to live in, loud with brawls,
Motion and pain, like any cow-town

Wide-open, Saturday nights, when Greed,
Quick at the trigger, rides forth respecting
But Cunning and Force, conflicting laws.

1940

Poetry