This poem is taken from PN Review 9, Volume 6 Number 1, September - October 1979.
The CartIt 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.
...
The page you have requested is restricted to subscribers only. Please enter your username and password and click on 'Continue'.
If you have forgotten your username and password, please enter the email address you used when you joined. Your login details will then be emailed to the address specified.
If you are not a subscriber and would like to enjoy the 284 issues containing over 11,400 poems, articles, reports, interviews and reviews, why not subscribe to the website today?
If you have forgotten your username and password, please enter the email address you used when you joined. Your login details will then be emailed to the address specified.
If you are not a subscriber and would like to enjoy the 284 issues containing over 11,400 poems, articles, reports, interviews and reviews, why not subscribe to the website today?
