Taking you on tour,
I remember
holding the scroll of my future
with the little wax seal
of life's majesty
with the sunlit corners of my mind.
I walk through the rich wood halls,
listen to the guide read a little,
unroll his story a little,
and I am suddenly dreaming,
waking in my dorm after a nap,
sycamore shadows on my face,
in the company of girls and boys,
and Sartre, Thoreau, Jung, and the Vedas,
in the valley of Carlisle
where the Conodiguinet still winds,
and its rich silt still gives a green glow
to the underside of frisbees,
tossed smartly
as I did myself
into the resinous air.
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