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This poem is taken from PN Review 14, Volume 6 Number 6, July - August 1980.

A Celtic Head Paul Mills

I.
Stone, melted by ice
Severed by crush
Stone, unstrung of speech
One eye on the weather
Stone craftily manicured to a face
By slow and permanent changes

Gather your narrative into this little mouth
 
II.
Now the nub of tongue and lip worn back
Almost to flat granite
Tastes at its edge this slim
And bright January
One of Earth's rivets
Thrills in its stub of sleep.
Now as to white anklebone the Moon.

III.
Things passed from mind enter without doors
Come self-invited to the house they closed.
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