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This poem is taken from PN Review 179, Volume 34 Number 3, January - February 2008.

Four Poems Moya Cannon

Still Life

Much though we love best
those rare intersections of time and space
where we are nothing but love's playthings,
caught, like two deer alerted in a clearing;
nothing but a sweet anonymity of flesh;
nothing but life's blessèd rhythm
loving itself through us -
two human bodies tuned to the whirring stars -

all this is almost nothing
without the small, quotidian gifts
which bridge separateness,
the small, habitual caresses which hinder fears,
the grace of small services rendered -
two bowls of blueberries and yoghurt,
...


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