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be forsaken?' -- I'm on my way
up to a wind-swept place
of darkness, snow, and some lights, and further on
a granite cave, icy water on its walls
black fl ecked with white and pink, the good
lair dark I dream to; start down fresh from.
This bad country in the late afternoon wears us down,
The rocks with their dead purples,
The scabby cactuses, trees with tiny oily leaves
And thorns so big they're visible from the road,
Shrubs that look made out of old wire. Finally it all says:
That hard life of yours couldn't live out here, the bad country
Would free you of it; then the spirit, turning
Ruthless as it was in the days of the anchorites,
Could have a respite and stand empty on some hillside.
the fugitive
Quick slapping, shaking of fronds,
something heavy jolting around
in there -- merely pigeons: they began to coo.
And a squirrel, perhaps young
and inexperienced, came out
on a frond and crossed over
fastidiously to the adjacent oak
leaving the place to these others
that no doubt satisfi ed themselves
with only approximations to comfort
and promptly fell asleep.