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I was looking for the stables
on the outskirts
Of the campus, for a place to rest in the pace and gloss
Of privilege, to stand awhile, hands in pockets,
Like Whitman, amused and self-sufficient, but turned
Right wrongly, and then there were a few frame bungalows
Hardly painted since the 30’s, and then the edge of town
You’ve heard so much about in song and story, but
No darkness here, only the most gradual shading off
Toward afternoon above an autumn field of drying
Queen Anne’s Lace and milkweed. It was like, well,
It was walking into diminishment. And then, a dream—
You know the kind—the dream that leads to the most
Unlikely places: first a small path, barely a rabbit run,
Then a road that shouldn’t be here at all, going nowhere
Fast: a stand of locusts and a few fishermen’s shacks
By the river’s edge where I thought no river ran, a sudden
Chill. Well, it was early November, and night coming on
With November’s haste, and this was the sort of place
You see on TV, the place where the bodies are found,
Because no one would think to look for them anywhere else.
I’d been walking a long way to come here, left sympathy
Like an old friend who leaned back against a fence rail
And waved me ahead towards a shanty door, cracked open
Leaves drifted on a threshold where no two might walk abreast.
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