[The following poem, reprinted in its entirety, is a tribute to Muriel Rukeyser.]

  It is difficult to see in this harsh light, in the glare of this machine place
  with the ferocity of blandness, pollution, steel, trains and cars with tired people almost well adjusted to their lack of direction and their routine; Kafka is in
  his grave; Camus lets out another call as he falls; the river is cold; the 385 dream songs are pieces of ice;
  the Lewiston factories are making Marsden Hartley cumbersome and outraged again; once more he celebrates
  the splash of the uplifted Atlantic wave and the terror and songs of Hart Crane; Homage to those shaken seers on Main Street; the cars
  ride by, the energy crisis, the identity crisis, the failure of communication crisis; how can you forget the concentration camps
  and all that went with them? but look at Muriel I...