down beside the road-edge I waited, sitting in the yellow of the sun
I divided that yellow from the green beneath me, under my hands.
Smoothing it all out, pushing the wrinkles off this American lawn
when it is ready I will rest my head, and I will pull it up over me
How many things, neither yours nor mine, are still slumbering here
where there are no traces of melody, only damp persistent rhythm
in the somnolent mounds of this country there remains for all days
an entire America, which was long ago discovered and forgotten.
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