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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.