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ForRobertBhain Campbell Unwandering, I can move One hand, then both, But not the hand to write what you can hear. Young poet asleep within cancer, I feel you changing with I feel you changing my language. Here is the place where I sit, In-breathing the childhood sea, But still a city man moves here As under traffic bridges. For him, there is no death so far, So out and down, as yours. Here in the sail-set sundown, As though God were moved by His wind, A man like a ghost may walk. I have no picture, or memory, But a tall sick man, and some words. I like him; I love him, I shall soon sit cold in an office, Hearing the sea swing, the dead man step: The sun at sunset in the mind Never falls, never fails. There is Berryman's poem, where you were a bird. And I, an unsocial man, Live working for some kind ofliving In a job where there is no light. But I can summon, can summon, And your face in my mind is hid By a beard I read you once grew. Listen: the people in their parks Think nothing, think ofnothing. But not for them I remember Or invent or wish for memory With a man from poems reconstructed. For Robert Bhain Campbell / 45 But not so well, Bhain Campbell. But not in your own flesh, Young poet asleep within cancer. I open your book again. Ifit were gone, Where could I get another? It is the place That with yourselfyou have made, you say, Deeper than the falling ofthe sun, You say, you are saying. And all and steadily deep From that ultimate place where you speak, and I In my office death-wish, must hear. Summons / 46 ...

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