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This poem is taken from PN Review 37, Volume 10 Number 5, March - April 1984.

Photograph John F. Deane

though released you return,
make invisible circles about me;
black, and white, and your child's wild hair;
as a bird that is held by the merest thread
you are near me; cardboard has curled

as your child's wild hair;
those eyes, that smile, before they are dead
must absorb years of pain; curtains fade
...


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