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Poem	On the road with billowing poplars, In a country flat and desolate To the far-off gray horizon, wherein obscurely, A man and a woman went on foot, Each carrying a small suitcase. They were tired and had taken off Their shoes and were walking on Their toes, staring straight ahead. Every time a car passed fast, As they're wont to on such a stretch of Road, empty as the crow flies, How quickly they were gone-- The cars, I mean, and then the drizzle That brought on the early evening, Little by little, and hardly a light Anywhere, and then not even that.
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