"Tyvek?" Ah, the soupy, gelatinous, writhing, recombinant genius of the American language, endlessly cloning and mutating, inexhaustible as chaos itself.

But what about that sly Parenthesis TM Close Parenthesis, an ugly encumbrance to the hubristic swoosh of "Tyvek?" Well, it's legally required, and never mind typographic elegance. For what could be more American than seeking to patent—and then tirelessly advertise and patent—absolutely everything? Herbs from the Amazon rain forest, genetically tweaked, turn into American trademarks, mostly pharmaceutical. So, too, deceased pan-cultural geniuses like George Balanchine, who has been both trademarked and, as a system of ballet technique, service-marked by his high-minded managerial heir, the Balanchine Trust. Trademark as apotheosis—take that and choreograph it, Apollo!

And finally, "Windbreaker." Winds of change, chance, exploration; of revolution, of civil and global wars; winds of the mutable fire that is our history, and the history, now, of much of the world. Winds, above all, of that all consuming conflagration our culture is, and can't outrun.

It's also, maybe, the funniest juggernaut ever, with The American Poet as streamlined hood ornament. For details, see A Scattering of Salts, published by Alfred A. Knopf, and Copyright 1995 by James Merrill.