This tough knot of fleshis no pillow, this bone caseno towel. My hands dothe work they are given,and the road backfrom home into nightfallstill beckons my feet.But can this be the morning?This brash adolescentwho mocks me. Are these eyepits eyes? Ah, Mother, where are you now? I am forty eight years old and ashamed to tell youthat I still want to bury my faceand cry on your breast.Lizard’s eye, gather me in. Night, let me go down easy. Dry hills, drifting like ships through invisible shadows,carry me off in a cool trace of wind blowing over the sage into rainfall at last.
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