Whenever I go to see a sunset
I must pass through a field littered with tin cans
rusty battered misshapen tin cans
tin cans with jagged openings
tin cans that once were belted with bright red labels
tin cans that once contained big fat Michigan tomatoes.

Whenever I go out to see a sunset
I must pass through a field littered with tin cans
and here and there a mouthful of bones
even a mongrel dog
wouldn't trouble to bury
and here and there a dry black fire-bitten stump of tree
the sweet rain moistens
only to make a smell that sickens.

Whenever I go out to see a sunset
I must look through land
soiled by the draining of the tide
sea-dirt scum weed
the angry froth of a beaten storm —
sticky and green.

Driven by hidden hands
as clouds are driven
I try like clouds
to follow the sunset
that my spirit may be touched with color
my spirit returns like the thousand sparks of a flame
borne on the wind
seeking the fire
my spirit returns like the thousand sparks of a flame
whose graying ardor cools the tomb of night.