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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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