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The Road

 I, too, would ease my old car to a stop
on the side of some country road
and count the stars or admire a sunset
or sit quietly through an afternoon.
I'd open the door and go walking like James Wright across a meadow, where I might touch a pony's ear and break into blossom; or, like Hayden Carruth, sustained by the sight of cows grazing in pastures at night, I'd stand speechless in the great darkness; I'd even search on some well-traveled road like Phil Levine in this week's New Yorker, the poet driving his car to an orchard outside the city where, for five dollars, he fills a basket with goddamned apples.

by Richard Jones
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