There is no art taught in the universities.
	There is no poetry, now no song
		but the wind rubbing grains of sand
and the sand's percussion against rock
and the tear of bits of stone against flesh.
	These are the music
unfettered and untold.
There are the mountains, their slow heaving
as they churn storm clouds above the valley.
The squirrels scratching outside my window
where shades are pulled back and sun dances
along the frozen spines of forgotten books.
Their pages turn and my sorrow reaches out.
There is no art taught in the universities.
	There is no poetry, no song,
		there are no children
among the workers laying roads and factories
building bridges from one capitol dome to another
there are no times for hyacinths blooming
	the wolf calling his mate
		the wild intangibles.