A granite stele with names inscribed
of those Americans who prized
a Nobel laurel since ’06
stands not high—no obelisk—
thus has of four but one face free
awaiting marks of mastery
in those arts by which we wished
most to be saved—novelist,
scientist, economist, peace.
Babies run here and dogs on leash
of people insensible
of their inexorable pull
upon the seams of all the earth,
upon all that dwell within her.
Time’s not on our side. The stele’s
last face will feel no chisel’s
blow down low unless we send up
souls whose science is peace, whose household’s hope.
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