This is another one of those poems that has much more resonance now that it did then

Driving Through Tennessee
Charles Wright

It’s strange what the past brings back.
Our parents, for instance, how ardently they still loom
In the brief and flushed
Fleshtones of memory, one foot in front of the next
Even in retrospect, and so unimpeachable.

And towns that we lived in once,
And who we were then, the roads we went back and forth on
Returning ahead of us like rime
In the moonlight’s fall, and Jesus returning, and Stephen Martyr
And St. Paul of the Sword …

— I am their music,
Mothers and fathers and places we hurried through in the night:
I put my mouth to the dust and sing their song.
Remember us, Galeoto, and whistle our tune, when the time comes,
For charity’s sake.