there are captives of the land -
they are speaking all around.
billowing up, sideways through californias
dark nights,
sweeping above the railroads and rail cars
and industrial ferment of rust, singing
deep baritone stones of whisping rasp,
of steam power and coal -
yearning in the cloudy plays of the dark theaters of
open country sky,
playful as the trickster -
making soft demands -
Honor the dead for whose life has been wealth,
whose speech is a prayer of the heart,
as quiet as the wind.
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