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This poem is taken from PN Review 1, Volume 4 Number 1, October - December 1977.

Eight Poems Robert Wells


The last bale placed, he stretched out in the hay.
      Its warmth and his were one.
He watched the fields beneath the weakening day
And felt his skin still burning with the sun.

When it was dusk, he moved. Between his skin
     And clothes the sweat ran cold.
He trembled as he felt the air begin
To touch and touch for what it could not hold.


This walking alone
Is before either loneliness
Or company. It is the first thing-

And to set prints in the dust
That the dry cold at night
Will leave unstirred.

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