Nation Building

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I am losing the knack for putting together houses— they are pretentious contrivances, they contain Hideous carpets that need to be beaten. And being out of the rain is overrated. I am losing My argument with entropy the way I lost the election for class president in 1959: with a mixture Of embarrassment and desire. There is a ratio of house to entropy that is yet to be determined, But gravity is the missing link. It drags the sconces down, covers the roof with leaves that clog the gutters. It is a mind-forged manacle—Blake had no use for it, he rose every morning a sick rose, but he knew An invisible worm when he saw one. The Tyger of freedom is leaking like my basement, the sump Is busted. If it weren’t for gravity, the rain wouldn’t divide us into haves and have-nots, and if it weren’t for entropy The fallen branches in the yard would create a new world order. Where are the founders who were born In log cabins they helped their fathers build? Blake owned a house but sat naked in the garden. My own father foundered—but, Like him, I get out my ladder. I empty my bucket. I fight the losing war.