"For many years a nearly round granite stone about two feet in diameter sat at the easterly corner of the front steps of the store now owned by Frank E. Brown. Few men in the town could lift it off the ground."

- Fred Pitkin's
History of Marshfield, Vermont, 1947.

The hands, arms, shoulders and back
consult briefly. A new challenge
of some dimension, of serious intent.
Promise heaves in the brain. This
is our provincial glory!
The bet down - budge it, and you won't
have to buy your own beer for a week -
you think in a sense your future... Read more

I

She is moving among them, singing
in no known key,
singing, song touching each,
and touching each
the song-attending leaves; the earthworn
hands, gentle, quick,
ride the beam-framed harbor
of unrelenting green. Rootsure,
tuned to the vying needs,
her whole music falls, a blessing
indiscriminate as rain. Given
to giving, she routs death
from the growth, singing; sings

though in her own wanting, she,
and bred with death as any.

II

Bolt fast, the keys chime
on the steel ring: day done.
Above her, as ever,
heaven is conjuring its stars.... Read more

Here are the rooms of the ones
that moved you.
Across the hall,
The Gallery of the Catchy
But Not Crucial.

The guards' coats,
sprinkled with tiny guitars.

Here a screen shows,
for each of us,
where we were, what we were doing,
the first time we heard
particular numbers.
A sign reads
>>KEY IN TITLE>>

And the conversation--
that low melody--
surprising how sorrowful
it often is:

When she left me
it was so bad
I couldn't stand
to even listento the radio

The Hendrix Room
is silent.
Wood benches,
where we sit wondering.