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My Hollows


by Sam Rasnake


              — for Gary Snyder

 

Let me say these words now,

in the light, before you go —

Wind across the North Cascades

is unbearably quiet this morning

 

I never hitchhiked a thousand miles

of summer highway, put up hay,

painted a boat, never stood beside

footstones in a garden near Kyoto, but

 

I have seen axe handles swim wide rivers

that couldn't be crossed, but the handles

didn't know they couldn't swim, so

they did, swimming on words —

big ones, small ones — words

so full of their own truth

I couldn't help but believe

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