I came to on the ground. In my fist
a handful of indestructible earth.
Already then there was this idea
of work. The body moving like a scythe
over its broad gold day. I was alone
in the hot sun. I sat up, then stood up.
Tried to clear from my mind
the unparalleled power of the dream—to stop
and start again . . . further ahead,
already past the poisoned flowers.
Noon sun in the high now.
Near my hand was a trowel
and a little farther off
half a stone fountain.
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