Monday, March 23, 2015

Never bring the book from the writer of a town you're going to see

strike through that valley
like five flashes of lightning,
like one,
in a car you've never seen,
down from the bottom,
south through the top,
past those old smokey
mountains, hidden towns, &
golden diners, by the sun's
rise, those ancient rays,
hit the tail of georgia
the sulking, brooding south,
in the appalachian hills,
leave a man behind, to walk
2,300 miles home, we'll be in
Maine come september, we'll be
welcoming home.

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