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This poem is taken from PN Review 51, Volume 13 Number 1, September - October 1986.

Poems Roger Finch


   The mountains just erupted the moon.
I was about to say she is mellow enough
to fall into my hand but she started to climb
   her holdfast thread back up through the sky.
She could fall.
              Imagine the sound of her shell
 shattering, not exactly a shell
 but foam-thin glass, a Christmas tree ball.
Children are never sure whether the moon is very large
 and very far away, or close and small.

 I am still not sure.
                    I reach out to touch
the moon, expecting my fingers to be gloved
with the mica from the wedding wings of a swarm
  of ants.
         She is so unclouded I see

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