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The road.

Whatever was else or less or more or even the sinister prospect of nothing left,

not this was anticipated, that there would be no one even to speak of it. Because all had passed over

to wherever they go. Into the fiery furnace to be burned to ash. Into the ground,

into mouldering skin and bone with mind the transient guest, with the physical again dominant in the dead flesh under the stones.

Was this the loved hand, the mortal "hand still capable of grasping..." Who could speak to make death listen?

One grows older, gets closer. It's a long way home, this last walking.
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Author:Creeley, Robert
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Mar 1, 1993
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