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This poem is taken from PN Review 226, Volume 42 Number 2, November - December 2015.

The Works Ian Patterson

The strange turning arose at his birth
as if my brain was glad to run from it

for the poets after him greedily lapping up
will not create the ocean

though ships sailed round about
they would have been strict rivals

as any boat could tumble
after it had relapsed for want of the shore

the sands there for the first
the second that they burnt and crushed

the third thought eaten up
in all the distress in my head

when thought will have a mile of it
but this common heath lost

and a flying voice dispersed

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