This poem is taken from PN Review 2, Volume 4 Number 2, January - March 1978.
South
The wake drags backward,
an open seam. White birds
are dipping for our crumbs.
Adrift, past calling, the moon
hangs low, the sky tilts
to the open nerve-
I'll home in any port.
This desert landscape, all colours
bled away, the mind assumes:
...
The page you have requested is restricted to subscribers only. Please enter your username and password and click on 'Continue':
If you have forgotten your username and password, please enter the email address you used when you joined. Your login details will then be emailed to the address specified.
If you are not a subscriber and would like to enjoy the 288 issues containing over 11,600 poems, articles, reports, interviews and reviews,
why not subscribe to the website today?