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This poem is taken from PN Review 120, Volume 24 Number 4, March - April 1998.

But Why Wait? Frank Kuppner

*

Listen. Your great-great-great-great-grandfather is
    laughing.
Do not ask which one. How should I know which one?
The game is about to end, and no one is about to win.

*

Morning. Unsettled light. White pajama trousers
lying beside the front door, with a newly arrived letter
on top of them. It must surely be good news this time.

*

Night. I sit in Dundee eating raisins I bought in Glasgow.
Part of the yearly produce of California, evidently.
My sister left here on Monday, to go to work in Germany.

*

Past midnight. Is no one looking at the loch right now?
There is surely a sort of glimmer still just above the water.
Is there no trace that we have passed? And what else?


A few words produced during a writing exercise

Planets are scattered through the void like toys
in a room too big and uncomfortable for a child to play in it.
...


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