Monday, July 17, 2006

Make it new-port

Bunched hills,
July's dry, umber fields,
green-gathered copses of
occasional trees,

Clouds unfurl in sky, retain this
somber light, this expanding collection
blue eternities,

Small, brick homes remind me
now and then that I am in England,
on a train, though this seems
something far
and nameless, like passing deep through the
belly of some
marvelous mound.

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