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--- C H R I S T O P H E R   F I E L D E R

   and I'm looking west again,
bending over countless green miles
old September of Sunday morning
Michigan, asleep in its crib
   driving past the electrical 
powerhouses of Jackson, beneath
great, blue, holy eye of Diana
leaning against the noon sun
in prayer, in love
   and out from beneath that sun,
Ann Arbor, left in the folds of
the skirts of girls I cannot avoid
as I go breaking my feet on State St.
and where on Liberty, rolling in the
shadows of the youth that comes at
9:00 p.m., the form of slow traffic
with little children's eyes behind 
car windows, black,
broken by the neon light
   and on down to Main
the little Greek restaurant
the light-eyed waitress with a name 
like old summer, Mediterranean night
that I have never seen
   her smile leaving me cold
a smile hard to find now
in the blue rolls of the pale horizon
stretched tight over corn fields, 
over steeples,
over green Spanish tile, faded
sitting silent above Kalamazoo Ave.
collecting dust from August foregone
the sun, the sunset
all poor over Kalamazoo Ave.
over poor Kalamazoo Ave.
and all of life going on 'round me
	the fly in my cup
	Motown born on the radio
	Michigan beneath my nails
	the pitiless bum, 
	his soles beating the 
	souls of the railroad
	tracks forever north
	his soles beating out time 
	depleting the songs of South Bend
   with love left for 
the insect on the pavement
and the insect behind the wheel
eyes fixed on the light
dancing from red to green
as the girls stop and wait
and September opens her womb
to the sound of rain
on brittle clay.

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