Angry. American. Poetry.

I read a book of Modern American Poetry and had to vent.

Like watching dew on a branch,
To 'plain tall fall as if entranced,

Knowing nothing of its sweet and kind;
Nor nothing of its mind
To tell me anything I need.

Missing flower turned bell.
Standing far to see
Power rip, turn,
Churn and pierce

By stalk of grass,
Its form surmise
And quickly guise.
All incorrect?
Leaves, crass, and tweets:

         Underneath the dew stood still
         As I know it would and will.

      Until it would fall
         The ground cried beneath
         
      The dew; fell to its bed.
         I was dead

Then walks away,
Raise arms bayed bare,
Jumping for joy
That no one sees
That to me
Is Classic
‘Merican.
Poetry.