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“…Nothing of me
Is here because this is not my house,
This is not the driver’s seat of my car
Nor the memory of someone who loved me
Nor the distant classroom in which I
Fell asleep and dreamed of lamb. This
Is dirt, a filled hole of earth, stone
That says return to stone, a broken fence
That mumbles Keep Out, air above nothing,
Air that cannot imagine the sweet duties
Of wildflowers and herbs, this is cheap,
Common, coarse, what you pass by
Everyday in your car without a thought,
This is an ordinary grave.”

Philip Levine

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