AT THE MOUNTAIN
OF RAMSEY
The sea is a distant rumor, a memory of another place;
there no water here near anywhere with salt. Fresh
as stream from a heart of gold. I'm sitting on a boulder
outside some goofball body shop, with a group of
junk cars all around. the sorts of things I like : a
1957 Buick Special, two old Chevy Impalas, and
a really distressed Dodge or Chrysler. The kind
of old junk that grows in weeds. I have no other
ideas - a blank mind wandering the woods.
Counting oaks, finding elms.
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