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This poem is taken from PN Review 102, Volume 21 Number 4, March - April 1995.

Three Poems John Burnside

Graceful as clowns, the storks
float on a limitless sky
as if they had just arrived.
from that fledgling moon.
They have borrowed those wings
from angels, but the nest
is makeshift and matter-of-fact, like a crown of thorns
that someone has torn from the body
and tossed aside,
put to a different use, still crusted with blood,
cradling the young till they rise
in the blue of July.

A Widower
The house paled
after she died:

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