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Thomas Halloran – Ⅱ






An old woman walks beside a road,

an empty road, next to a scrubby verge.

She seems possessed with going–

whether she cares where–

lugs her whole past forward on each step,

each plant of her knotted stick.

Whenever I look, she’s there,

stalking the next mile on,

the sky as vacant as the road.

This could mean I don’t know who I am.