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Waking, Working
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Published: Sun Jul 01 2007
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Waking, Working

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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