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97 THE POPLARS I focused on them because I was bored, a windbreak of four behind his head. Poem as Prayer. Words paradoxical and few. Studied with . . . this one came to me . . . my son . . . seventeen months. They bordered the garden west in the dusk, slender as vapor trails, rushing in place. Maidenly, scary, they began to steal my thoughts. Were we not finding him goopy and bad? I wondered. But it was hard to tell. These heads grouped on the stairs (some brilliant, loved) showed only blankness, freighted absorption. My eyes rolled back up. So piercingly slender. Capacity in their stillness. Suggesting motion. And so high. Rocketing up, toppling back on us against the sky. He turned on the flashlight our hostess had given him. Reflecting off the pages, it lit his face from below, and I could see his skin faintly sagging from his bones. Thirties not twenties. Career as a poet. Flavor of discipleship, smile like Jesus that wavered in the silence. Our applause. But I was gone in the rocketing of the poplars. Rushing and rustling. They were saying everything at once. ...

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