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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 42, Volume 11 Number 4, March - April 1985.

Poems James Keery


The nets have come up empty, leaving us free to imagine
What the object was. Who crayoned large, red slogans
On my body as I was sleeping? The dream
Would bleed away if I opened my eyes. This longing
Beyond you is love, and no cause for sadness.


The sun was white, and set among the snowclouds like a
A twilight settled over the red mills that I confuse.
It almost frightened me, although I took it in my stride:
A sense of winged depression, like the heron's final glide.


The weather was like a new pin this afternoon.
A strict illusion brings the loose patrol
Across the field of February mud.

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