Iron-filings scattered over a dusty Map of crook-cornered States in yellow and blue. Little, grouped male and female iron-filings, Scattered over a patchwork-quilt whose patches Are the red-earth stuff of Georgia, the pine-bough green of Vermont. Here you are clustered as thick as a clump of bees In swarming time. The clumps make cities and towns. Here you are strewn at random, like single seeds Lost out of the wind’s pocket. But now, but now, The thunderstone has fallen on your map And all the iron-filings shiver and move Under the grippings of that blinded force, The cold pull of the ash-and-cinder star.