Nemerov’s Sweeper has 310 syllables by my count (104, 105, and 101 by stanza, counting “there’ll” and “prayer” both as single-syllable words). Each line has either 10 or 11 syllables, but there seems to be no pattern to the distribution of those values, and I was unable to discern any further metrical regularity. To put it generously, the poem is composed of a broad mélange of feet. One line is broken mid-word, and three sentences end mid-line. It seems odd to me that Nemerov would use an awkward new expression to add some rhythmic regularity to a poem that seems delightfully free of it otherwise (and I’m not sure “more leaves” adds much rhythmically—I hesitate to scan the seventh line as you must; stressing the last syllable of “easily” puts too much burden on the comma—or are you stressing three syllables in a row?).

I am not entirely blind to the possibility that freer verse can be quite effective, evocative, enjoyable—but when the form is loose, the content must do more work. And here, I benefit from your suggestions when my own interpretive engines refuse to turn. I initially thought you were suggesting a theory of justice as indifference—that there was something that could be called just in the peaceful appearance of acceptability. But I missed the importance of the appearance as distinct from the reality. Were you suggesting rather that the cleanliness makes it easy for us to overlook some injustice, perhaps because our eyes have no leaves to linger upon, because our path is free and does not demand our attention at all? That when a situation is comfortable we may fail to look too carefully at how it came to be that way? That we want not truth but merely plausible deniability? These ideas I can appreciate (and by “appreciate” I mean something like “be disturbed by” or “cry over”). It requires a bit more of my imagination than I am used to using to trace these ideas in the poem, but I begin to see them now, as I did not on first reading. I still have some difficulty with it—the last full sentence is a dark mystery to me—but I’m working on it.

But back to ‘more leaves’ Why describe something as more when you are not saying what it is more than? This is the syntactic problem and the meaning problem. Here is my shot, though, at putting some light on the meaning here: The effect is to convey that there are a seemingly endless number of leaves– more and more and more. The trees are haughty and they simply drop leaves like a rich man might drop a quarter into a panhandlers cup or—more likely—drop a five into the hands of a coffee vendor. He dispenses his more dollars easily.

This fits with what I take to be the focus of the poem—the gap in understanding (and communicating) that exists between people of different economic classes. When I mentioned justice what I meant was that a way swept clean of leaves gives a superficial impression of amity. It makes things seem just because they are not messy. Real justice would demand that certain people (white people) not be exempted from doing jobs like the one that the sweeper does. Or maybe this is too strong… maybe it is just that it is an affront to a responsive, democratically minded individual to see another man, full of his portion of human dignity, engaged in a servile task— one, moreover, that the poet benefits from. The echo of slavery that still resonates makes it all the more distressing to some difficult to articulate sense of justice.

What I can tell is that the way has not been swept clear of all obstruction; the way might be splendidly free of leaves, but there are numerous little rocks and branches strewn across the path that trip me up as I make my way through the verse:

• “trees…Dispense their more leaves easily”
• “To witness of a truth”
• “finish all those leaves Against time”
• “say the weather”
• “leaves stuck like emblems on the walk” [can something be like an emblem, without actually being one, or without being like a particular emblem?]
• “he brooms at”

The awkward syntax and word usage lead me to wonder if Nemerov’s way is really so free. Perhaps a few more erasers conversant in the pencil tongue would have helped direct those uncomfortable constructions to a blazing disorder, and out of my way. A certain urge toward charity pushes me to ask if these little rocks, these obstacles to my clear and comfortable reading, were left to serve some purpose? Does all my stumbling force me to keep my eyes on the ground, to pay closer attention to the path I’m walking? If all the fascinating leaves have been swept away, what further interest could I have in the path beneath my feet, beyond where it takes me?

I really don’t understand why the “careful, kindly mind” is (presumed to be) doing nothing. I find it is when I am doing something as repetitive and mundane as sweeping leaves that my mind roams most freely and energetically. Or is Nemerov using “mind” metonymically? I can’t interpret this poem, because I can’t read it. Again, I find myself wishing we could meet again for a thorough discussion.

The trees are haughty, the wind hunts hypocrisy, the days are hastening, the broom is patient as a tree. The small mild Negro man is evidently quite efficient, as the path is kept splendidly free of leaves. All this is certainly good, and good the truth when naked and cold. But would I call any of it justice? I don’t know, Alan… this, I think, requires further consideration.