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LIVING BY THE RED RIVER Blood flows in me, but what does it have to do With the rain that is falling? In me, scarlet-jacketed armies march into the rain Across dark fields. My blood lies still, Indifferent to cannons on the ships of imperialists Drifting offshore. Sometimes I have to sleep In dangerous places, on cliffs underground, Walls that still hold the whole prints Of ancient ferns. TO FLOOD STAGE AGAIN In Fargo, North Dakota, a man Warned me the river might rise To flood stage again. On the bridge, a girl hurries past me, alone, Unhappy face. Will she pause in wet grass somewhere? Behind my eyes she stands tiptoe, yearning for confused sparrows To fetch a bit of string and dried wheatbeard To line her outstretched hand. I open my eyes and gaze down At the dark water. A POEM WRITTEN UNDER AN ARCHWAY IN A DISCONTINUED RAILROAD STATION, FARGO, NORTH DAKOTA Outside the great clanging cathedrals of rust and smoke, The locomotives browse on sidings. They pause, exhausted by the silence of prairies. Sometimes they leap and cry out, skitterish. They fear dark little boys in Ohio, Who know how to giggle without breathing, SHALL WE GATHER AT THE RIVER 15! ...

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