a shawled old woman Sits on a curbstone calling the evening news. War, to her, is a good day when papers sell Or a bad day when papers don’t. War is fat black type. Anything’s realer than war. By Omaha The valleys and gorges are white with the covered wagons Moving out toward the West and the new, free land. All through the war they go on. Five thousand teams Pass Laramie in a month in the last war-year, Draft-evaders, homesteaders, pioneers, Old soldiers, Southern emigrants, sunburnt children.⁠ ⁠… Men are founding colleges, finding gold, Selling bad beef to the army and making fortunes, Ploughing the stone-cropped field that their fathers ploughed. (Anything’s realer than war.) A moth of a woman, Shut in a garden, lives on scraps of Eternity With a dog, a procession of sunsets and certain poems She scribbles on bits of paper. Such poems may be