This poem is taken from PN Review 120, Volume 24 Number 4, March - April 1998.
But Why Wait?*
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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