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This poem is taken from PN Review 176, Volume 33 Number 6, July - August 2007.

The Revenant Evan Jones

1
'My bags are not packed,' the revenant said,
'and all my maps to stars' homes are aflame.'
More difficult to recognize, he'd lost
all the sad etcetera of the wrong
and his toothbrush changing planes at Lutan.
Still, I left him at the bus depot, where
swallows, sickened of this year, had laid down
their feathers in protest. Turning away,
I imagined him as underdressed
as those swallows - his birthday suit torn at
neck, knee and elbow. And I was sick of
this year. Hadn't it been endlessly hot?
And to cool ourselves, hadn't we only
rain - thick layers of it falling as if
poured from a bucket twice daily? Yes, the
...


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