This poem is taken from PN Review 128, Volume 25 Number 6, July - August 1999.
River SongLast of all the men in white
Pull on their gloves
And fingertip by fingertip
Count every blade of grass.
There is a final place for you
And another for the stream.
The Ffornwg finds its secret confluence
But where one river finishes
Another flows on, different
Stronger.
Yet all I can see
Is the silver padlock on your tongue
And you face full of fishhooks -
Those rings you fit for Saturday night.
Because everybody loves Saturday night.
Now you're married to the word
We dare not speak
...
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