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Among the Unawake poems from the Great Plains by Rodney Nelson

N e v e r   a t   H o m e

A gull or two or three hauling east
up in the mild November sky
are on the whitherward of almost
every cloud that I have watched
but I would not want to follow them
wing through
in a sting of bright cold rain
seem to be going all home
to a what that is I would not know
may be hauling them instead
toward the retreating horizon
do not have to go their way
who know that wherever I might have
stopped the horizon would remain
even with my taking off again
to another same some other
looking on
a trump of sun and rock
at home but in the winging


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