After the reading

dark woods
and a rutted gravel road
downhill
from Frost Place to parking lot
my flashlight bobs a golden circle
around my sandaled feet
now familiar with the path
leading to words
the wisdom of poets
of course
the omnipresent myth of Frost
the reality of his tiny rooms
his sturdy barn
his damaged trees

along the road
few isolated homes
lit like an airport runway
with jarring modern bulbs
double garages
satellite dishes
and through a window
a surreal vision
of pinstriped uniforms
catcher, batter
assaulting me with Technicolor
brighter than the mountain moon
soon to rise
and flood the valley
with a purer more poetic light

somewhere out there
the world is watching baseball
while I am in the woods
listening to poetry

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