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Forever is like getting off a train:
Outside the landscape listens, holds its breath;
Racing hedges stop, the mountains pause,
Trees wait on the wind, as still as death.
Yet far off, a whistle sounds again.
So may we, though trapped within our motion,
Imaginatively step beyond its laws:
X's on the surface of an ocean.
All poems: copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
Free scrapbook poems
permission to use
provided by the author. |
