Collected Poems 12

From a Train Window, Spain

I know gray villages on hillsides,
Crumbling quarries of stony mausoleums
Grovelling sepulchers,
Beaten by storms of gnawing precipitation
And scrubbed by suns of scorching noons,
Hollow, abandoned,
Washing down off slopes
In minute grayish veins of chalk
Pulsing its way through eras of time
Out over long level stretches
Toward a waiting lapping sea.
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