PN Review Print and Online Poetry Magazine
News and Notes
Digital Access to PN Review
Access the latest issues, plus back issues of PN Review with Exact Editions For PN Review subscribers: to access the PN Review digital archive via the Exact Editions app Exactly or the Exact Editions website, you will first need to know your PN Review ID number. read more
PN Review Prize winners announced
Carcanet Press and PN Review are delighted to announce the winners of the first ever PN Review Prize. read more
Most Read... Rebecca WattsThe Cult of the Noble Amateur
(PN Review 239)
Vahni CapildeoOn Judging Prizes, & Reading More than Six Really Good Books
(PN Review 237)
Drew MilneTom Raworth’s Writing
‘present past improved’: Tom Raworth’s Writing

(PN Review 236)
Alejandro Fernandez-OsorioPomace (trans. James Womack)
(PN Review 236)
Eavan BolandA Lyric Voice at Bay
(PN Review 121)
Kei MillerIn the Shadow of Derek Walcott

(PN Review 235)
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
Gratis Ad 1
Gratis Ad 2
Next Issue Peter Scupham at 85: a celebration Contributions by Anne Stevenson, Robert Wells, Peter Davidson, Lawrence Sail

This poem is taken from PN Review 107, Volume 22 Number 3, January - February 1996.

Four Poems Stephen Burt

Lot's Wife
He had packed as if for a long vacation: bottled water, sleeping
bags shiny like bugs, clenched together like fists in a crowd. But
my agates, my address book, my cigarettes, my… there was no
need for them; they burned.

I can no longer imagine that city enough. I know it had men
dressed as cherubim across the high street, trailing clouds of
Mylar on parade, a radiant turbulence in basements. Even the
violent found something they could enjoy. Afterwards street-
lamp-shafts bent at the limits of vision, and burnt-paper corners
of ruined walls: translucent remains, as of a thermometer.

I'm a sundial. I can tell every bright hour with stultifying regu-
larity: each day the same black circumnavigates me, my
crystalline thickening waist, my no-feet. When time passes
slowly I am what it must pass.

Sometimes it rains, but not enough.


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image