Poems February 1990
Driving to dark country
Past where the last
gang of signs
comes out of the dark
to wave you back
and past telephone
wires lengthening
with the light of someone
beyond the next hill
just returning,
a slow single line
will take the eye
of your high beam. Around you
will be jewels
of the fox-watch.
Great trees will rise up
to see you passing by
all by yourself,
riding on light.
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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 8 Number 6, on page 43
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