Blues going off to gray;
The wind that blows one way.
Highway without a bend;
Fences that never end.
Cornflowers, one or two:
Horizon near to view,
If just as fragment. Trees?
Intrusions. Let the breeze
Pass undeterred, abstract
As Central in the act
Of going Mountain. Set
Your clock. No need to fret.
Is there not time and time?
Although, in prospect, climb
To forests. Narrowings,
They. Trees and their tight rings
Say as by wooden lip
I’ve often made this trip.
Or would beneath the saw
(A suburb in the raw).
Meanwhile, the Tumbleweed
Mocks fixity, a deed,
Idea of real estate.
Between the Golden Gate
And here no survey holds.
No map but Air’s unfolds.
Dead reptiles give it scale;
Cacti are it in Braille:
How I at blind three score
Trace every mile once more.
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