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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! Who sneak out of graveyards in summer twilights And lay crossties across rails. The rattle of coupling pins still echoes In the smoke stains, The Cincinnati of the dead. Around the bend now, beyond the grain elevators, The late afternoon limited wails Savage with the horror and loneliness of a child, lost And dragged by a glad cop through a Chicago terminal. The noose tightens, the wail stops, and I am leaving. Across the street, an arthritic man Takes coins at the parking lot. He smiles with the sinister grief Of old age. LATE NOVEMBER IN A FIELD Today I am walking alone in a bare place, And winter is here. Two squirrels near a fence post Are helping each other drag a branch Toward a hiding place; it must be somewhere Behind those ash trees. They are still alive, they ought to save acorns Against the cold. Frail paws rifle the troughs between cornstalks when the moon Is looking away. The earth is hard now, The soles of my shoes need repairs. I have nothing to ask a blessing for, Except these words. I wish they were Grass. 152 ...

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