PN Review Print and Online Poetry Magazine
Most Read... Rebecca WattsThe Cult of the Noble Amateur
(PN Review 239)
Mark FordLetters And So It Goes
Letters from Young Mr Grace
(aka John Ashbery)

(PN Review 239)
Kei Millerthe Fat Black Woman
In Praise of the Fat Black Woman & Volume

(PN Review 241)
Henry Kingon Toby Martinez de las Rivas
(PN Review 244)
Eavan BolandA Lyric Voice at Bay
(PN Review 121)
Vahni CapildeoOn Judging Prizes, & Reading More than Six Really Good Books
(PN Review 237)
Next Issue Jen Schmitt on Ekphrasis Rachel Hadas on Text and Pandemic Kirsty Gunn Essaying two Jee Leong Koh Palinodes in the Voice of my Dead Father Maureen Mclane Correspondent Breeze
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
PNR 250 Poetry Archive Banner
Monthly Carcanet Books
PN Review Blog

This poem is taken from PN Review 93, Volume 20 Number 1, September - October 1993.

Two Poems Gregory Woods


If there were dancers, they were not dancing. If there was a tree,
It had not emerged from the rock. Potential was enough.
Fish, if there were fish, confined themselves discreetly to the dark
Angles in the shadow of the overhang, if the moon was out
For casting shadows. (Say, for the sake of the moment, it was.)

In the presence of the dust, we celebrated our return
To sanity. It was the dust we tasted on each other's skin-
You could say we made mud of it. Adapting our accustomed
Falsehoods to the requirement of the time, we reduced each other's
Serious intensity to laughter, an excuse for tears.

If there was a clock, hidden under blankets in a basket
Or thieved by brigands in the night, it would not for want of winding
Stop.We were reconciled to that. I slept in your armpit, dreaming,
If there were dreams, of you: you in the mountains, you on horseback,
you at the cash-and-carry.There was a sentence which recurred

Searching, please wait... animated waiting image