Birthplace

Nearly fifty years since the child in the mining Town looked out the window to see The woman stooped over gold and cutting it. (On the street there are weeds, boarded windows, Trailers, an old man shyly nodding.) The field, the stooped woman, the yellow flowers Heaped in the basket, survive somehow In the eyes of the man Who loiters here at his birthplace. By some strange salvage they live, the house, The field, and the white-headed boy Waiting for him in the shadows. They persist in life under eyelids, Not to be touched or trammeled, Something he bears with him now as he quits The cracked pavement And slowly turns from the place Where sight began, and the dreaming.

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