Wanderers outside the gate, in hollow
landscapes without memory, we carry
each of us an urn of native soil,
of not impalpable dust a double handful
carelessly gathered (was it garden mould
or wood-soil fresh with hemlock needles, pine
and princess pine, this little earth we bore
in secret, vainly, over the frontier?)
A parcel of the soil not wide enough
or firm enough to build a dwelling on
or deep enough to dig a grave, but cool
and sweet enough to sink the nostrils
in and find the smell of home, or in the ears
rumors of home, like oceans in a shell.
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