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This poem is taken from PN Review 78, Volume 17 Number 4, March - April 1991.

Saroyanesque Mark Jarman

That fall through a fanfare of rain the days
  approached like giants,
And each came to sit down in my mother's steaming
  kitchen.
A place was made for it - the sodden body of the
  great day -
Amid my mother's domestic travails, which included
  my indolence.

My sadness! She tried to understand the sheets of
  pain
That I produced as though I were an arcane machine
Invented to print sorrow in hieroglyphics
And present it to my mother who had the world to
  decipher.

'Mother, I do not believe in the future,' I would say.
But here would come one of her marvelous giants,
  dripping and stamping
...


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