Wednesday 15 March 2017

John Burnside - America

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When I sleep, I am also the stranger I used to be,

driving from Monterey to Calistoga

or leaving the car at the edge of a country road

and crossing the Brandywine in the yellow of morning;

and this is as close as I come to a mind I can love,
slowing for deer on a fire road near Shipshewana,

or later, in some blue-lit Kansas town
stopping a while to watch, as a gaggle of children

play out the final innings of a day
they'd thought was theirs, and could have been forever.

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