From this bluff, I look out west across a valley to a bluff,
And, if I concentrate, I can consider what I'm seeing to be
All the world I need to know. The drivers of the cars which
Pass are ciphers, of no use to me in their provincial
Mindlessness. The suited stooges, neatly parted, one side
Faking redneck rancor, one shambolic rectitude, are too far
Off to keep in mind. The murderers and all their victims,
Starving children, refugees, persist in places I can't reach,
And having learned how hopeless it is to urge anyone
To change, I blot their images away. I'm better off believing
That the world is no greater than this piece that I can see.