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Poetry
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American Summer
Poems written while traveling.
Highway 111
Cross winds stretch the play in the steering. The heart beats faster. Four miles outside of Palm Springs surprised by the empty desert and these mountains which look like no other mountains. Gusts of adrenalin. The road lies on a lucid bed. Salt cedars break the wind. A dark brown woman passes quickly in a Mercedes-Benz. The road lies. The land rolls with the wind. And still the indians have remained, hidden in the sharp canyons with their multitude of palms, or at the relinquished hot springs, and outside the walls of the motel pools, outside the freight entrance to Saks's Fifth Avenue. back | ToC | next
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