Summer 1990 • Vol. XII No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1990 |

Pilgrimage

We drive home, the valley floor flooded with darkness, the baby inside you floating head down, swaying when the car turns, a sleeper within a sleeper. A glove of moonlight on my hand, I remember the lake in Maine, my friend angry, challenging me to swim with him across. We vanished and reappeared in the swells, flailing, filling and emptying our hands. I found him floating on his back, his face warm in the sun, the lake holding him, hiding him. I won't wake you, a shadowy rush of farms and meadows the way they streamed past the train to Barcelona, you and I sleeping uneasily, the racket of hammering rails in the tunnels, and out, the ocean beside us, calm in moonlight. We stopped, jarred awake in our little berths. We climbed into the bus where your purse was picked—it must have been there—crowded into the aisle, the small boy behind you, his terrific concentration. We got off too soon, and walked block after block of urban housing: blank, evacuated. What app

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We drive home, the valley floor flooded with darkness, the baby inside you floating head down, swaying when the car turns, a sleeper within a sleeper. A glove of moonlight […]

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