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This poem is taken from PN Review 2, Volume 4 Number 2, January - March 1978.

South Charles Boyle

The 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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