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Wakening at night
in an unfamiliar place
Wakening at night in an unfamiliar
place,
the window on the road whose name
he cant recall, the moonlight on his face;
but what will come is not the same

as what has gone. Beneath, a sense of haste
perhaps most clear in the stillest hour
lays bare an apparition in the march and waste
of night. He listens: hears the mower

whet the scythe. So clear. The moons traverse
is on the silent fields; the hedge-line trees,
as he does, listen to the sound, unterse,
deeper than foundations of their forms. He sees

beyond his sight the shadowed swath, knows,
maybe even as the slow-cast night ablates
a little of the being that he is; light grows
on him, a part-known mode of unknown states.

Night
Altitude: titles
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