America
When I sleep, I am also the stranger I used to be,
driving from Monterey to Calistoga
or leaving the car at the edge of a country road
and crossing the Brandywine in the yellow of morning;
and this is as close as I come to a mind I can love,
slowing for deer on a fire road near Shipshewana,
or later, in some blue-lit Kansas town
stopping a while to watch, as a gaggle of children
play out the final innings of a day
they'd thought was theirs, and could have been forever.
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