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40 VISITATION AT THE ASHFORD MOTEL You, who have shattered the hours— Rusted lamppost flickering, trees That muffle tire-whine from the interstate Running through the mind, Transformer buzzing on a weathered pole, And in the parking lot, stains of the multitude, A summer dried of words, and now It is night, motel empty, the altered leaves of Connecticut. Toil, it is said, and God will toil. If I rest, it is the rest of the abandoned. If I rest, what was gained is taken. I am here that your words, the waters Pour into me and enlarge my heart For I have uncoiled the Damascus wrap of it And will turn its steel into plow-blade. For here, I frail your fiddle in the key of cricket. For lo, I am shriven. ...

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