It must be cold in the ground these winter mornings.
            The man who delivers the paper drives
            up our hill each dawn, and the news arrives

  Imagine our nation is a giant boy,
down on his knees in a giant kitchen—
trucks and trains and stupendous armies
marching across the mop-clean floor.

What false color, a fickle color, whatever color will do.
Point us at a sunset,
and we are golden. Open us to the world, and we are blue.