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Show NOVEMBER POEM During the last weeks of autumn I begin to watch the curve of the road that winds around the hill. It lies like a thin strip between sand and more sand. By October the sky is grey and in November the earth turns and closes up her womb, and the ocean spreads itself silently like a large plumed fan. I am drawn into it by some unusual field that hangs both transparent and electric. Like some bleak madness, it makes excuses, cancels appointments. On the beach sharp stones jut out across the sand. A gray picket fence bends along the crest of a hill, its slats barren like the dry ribs of a whale. Strange, that a place so known can leave you empty, a place that lingers in hollow feet. |