The fox pushes softly, blindly through me at night,
Between the liver and the stomach. Comes to the heart
And hesitates. Considers and then goes around it.
Trying to escape the mildness of our violent world.
Goes deeper, searching for what remains of Pittsburgh
In me. The rusting mills sprawled gigantically
Along three rivers. The authority of them.
The gritty alleys where we played every evening were
Stained pink by the inferno always surging in the sky,
As though Christ and the Father were still fashioning the Earth.
Locomotives driving through the cold rain
Lordly and bestial in their strength. Massive water
Flowing morning and night throughout a city
Pittsburgh’s a manufacturing town. Gilbert links this fact with the creation (manufacture?) of the world.
Searching For Pittsburgh