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This poem is taken from PN Review 75, Volume 17 Number 1, September - October 1990.

Three Poems John Ash

ABOVE THE ARCH

Falling asleep on the plane
I dreamt I was on a plane.
The land below was scuffed and scarred,
without trees or habitation,
bearing only the marks of what seemed to be
a retreating acid tide. It was all

very clear. We would travel
for a thousand miles before encountering
the first palisaded fort, the first town,

and each water-hole would be poisoned.
We would throw ourselves down in the mud with
  animals,
with starved animals whose eyes blinked
without hostility or friendship. Mirrors, jewels -

beautiful and cold,
...


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