This poem is taken from PN Review 239, Volume 44 Number 3, January - February 2018.
Occasional CollageOccasional Collage for John Ashbery
The long letter was to his sweetheart,
About or to or written on what was left of the pier.
Terminal stress without hyperbeats, anyway,
It was eleven o’clock, an unheard of hour.
When one of his friends betrayed him
by unkindness or neglect it was apostasy;
Not so with you. That the river might miss
The party, every table in its ghost disguise.
...
About or to or written on what was left of the pier.
Terminal stress without hyperbeats, anyway,
It was eleven o’clock, an unheard of hour.
When one of his friends betrayed him
by unkindness or neglect it was apostasy;
Not so with you. That the river might miss
The party, every table in its ghost disguise.
...
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