This poem is taken from PN Review 2, Volume 4 Number 2, January - March 1978.
SouthThe wake drags backward,
an open seam. White birds
are dipping for our crumbs.
Adrift, past calling, the moon
hangs low, the sky tilts
to the open nerve-
I'll home in any port.
This desert landscape, all colours
bled away, the mind assumes:
...
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