Monday, June 29, 2009


Left behind by the sunset, a car 

Passes roses growing on the state line
And hurries into the shadow of a cliff.
From then on the passengers' words
Are beyond them, fixed,
A star above the snowstorm.
High up the night is clear.
The large rivers of wind flow over the continent. 
There are many stars.

Out in Oregon I walk beside the ocean.
In case of an accident, I carry my I.D. .
I am the man who means something by my gray hat.
Late, the fog rolls in. The dogs and Frisbees go back to town.
My prayers graze out on the sea like sheep or clouds.
Roaming for hours far from my mouth
Wild, unrevised, I cannot call them back.

Behind me in the mountains
The car is heading west
Passing the numberless hills.
Everything I do is a kind of waiting for them. 

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