Guston's Crossing

for Musa Guston

So Philip Guston wept because the world
was going badly. He read the magazines.
He saw the cruelties, the brinks; cliff edges

like the ledge great Peter's steed rears at, not
knowing if he'll be spurred to leap or reined
back in. What could a painter do but go

"and adjust a red to blue"? There rose the heaps
of shoes. Their owners, dust. Now Peter's heir
removes a shoe to bang a desk and bellow

those threats to bury us all. Your father read
the graffiti on the wall. People didn't get it.
Where was the dream, the elegant easel? Now

Nixon with platypus nose at San Clemente;
masked KKK men, sit-down comics; the naked
light bulb hung from its frayed cord—broad brush,

bald scrawl, casting his lot with ours. Dear Musa,
you said you were going back to help, while he
could work, making the next thing clear as he could.