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This poem is taken from PN Review 55, Volume 13 Number 5, May - June 1987.

Belgrade John F. Deane

Grey evening settles slowly down on Serbia.

I have a room on the 14th floor, Hotel Slavija;
below me, in the square, the trams
articulate their maggot shapes around
the bust of a national hero; they take
quick gulps of power from the cables
overhead, and I look down on flashes of blue
lightning. I am sitting
...


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