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This poem is taken from PN Review 241, Volume 44 Number 5, May - June 2018.

Five Poems Mark Valentine

The brook emerged
at the bend of the road
then vanished in thorns.
Where did it go? We thrust
through, wanting to know.

We didn’t get very far:
it was hot, we got wet,
tore our shirts,
bare arms and legs, yet
stayed excited, for

we might find our selves
in some place we did not know,
unseen and left alone,
some rippling, hidden
secret territory, our own.


The house smells of woodsmoke,
though the fires are long dead.
Who was it who lived here
watching the flames and who

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