"I know I am restless and make others so"
for I confront peace, security, and all the settled laws,
to unsettle them""
Walt Whitman can't remember
what he did with America.
It was there in his back pocket
yesterday or the day before:
caroling, brawling, lusty, democratic;
stretching its broad-backed plains
in the sun between seas.
He walks from door to door
selling subscriptions to the Universe.
Who are these sad-eyed does,
this tamed race, moping proletariat?