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Michael Mott

Spring 1988

Y’iebo

By Michael Mott

“Y’iebo!”—said everywhere, but spelt . . . ? meaning “I see you!” Called out in birdlike voices by the girls washing in rockpools for the Reed Dance. I see you, […]

Fall 1965

Piero Di Cosimo

By Michael Mott

“The nations have come to the birth but there uas no strength to bring forth.” Your eggs are addled, that brown hen With orange in her comb, your broody city, […]

Spring 1964

For Wise Men . . .

By Michael Mott

For wise men learning is the last illusion. He sits and smiles among the morning trees, A garden god openly worshipped by the nurses Who tuck his rug about his […]