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This poem is taken from PN Review 9, Volume 6 Number 1, September - October 1979.

The Cart Peter Scupham

It is, after all, only a collection of leaves.
Hours bring them together; ends are not disclosed.
There is the work of hands, felt by their absence.
      They have taught the grasses

But the lesson is lost on them. The birds, though,
Know there is something that they have to do.
It is the way heads nod; they skip the air
      Which is not warm, not cold.
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