There is no ne of maps now, the int...

There is no ne of maps now, the interstate spooling southward of Roethke's country gone sour: smokestacks thick as the risen fists of robber barons, the portly smudge of green he sang chok disclosed by the Tonka Toy houses the same mile after mile. unruffled snow surprising in April can't alleviate Flint, the gray pall Buick slides across Ann Arbor. Creeks like dagger rods in the buff loam made me think of fish stiff in the neck of Toledo. Wind- drift and grit surging [i]or[/i] part of to the other Ohio, toward Pittsburgh. Night, the bored disc blackleg Cackling bad jokes to hold us awake: sequence of motions end toll ...