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This poem is taken from PN Review 142, Volume 28 Number 2, November - December 2001.

Two Poems Rachel Martin

Tears

The old railway track, become a rubbish tip,
broken glass glints under my feet.
The banks of grass like mangy fur,
ragged robin fluff on the air -
a shady valley; I walked alone,
between bushes and recent puddles,
in strange sunlight. The smelly tunnel
made of half-bricks domed, and circular
like half a barrel; the murkiness inside it!
I almost crawled as in a narrowing cave
believing in the point of light that blinded.

Hot, shaded by the trees, secret, alone,
I became unhappiness until the end of tears.


The Lost Gondola

A Venetian walking one day with the crowds
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