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Driving to the Mountain
By John Enright

I am every secret you have forgotten,
everything ever caught in your teeth.
I am the receipts you never received
and all your undelivered messages.
I am your abortions, your empties
thrown out of pickup truck windows
at passing high desert telephone poles.
I am the dreams other people have of you,
the last stranger's bed you slept in.

I am the mountain of your past that awaits you
made up of all that you have discarded,
every hope abandoned, every friend whom
you never got back to, all of your losses
gathered together to greet you.

From his recent collection On Turning 60



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