Spring 1944 • Vol. VI No. 2 Poetry |

Gunnery Practice

It is always there, rattling the teacups at four, Tilting the seagull on his favorite perch, Twitting his gaudy eye. But in the town, Well-used to it, bread is delivered as usual. Casual week-enders and furlough brides express A barbed impatience at its thoughtlessness And snap a flower's neck or steal a kiss To scatter the dark shock with counter-shock. Shaking the smooth midsummery ocean, Invisible convulsions mumble in space Like answering Jehovah: for one wide moment The ragged flags of panic skitter in the air. Carefully, though, the embarrassed gull rearranges His feathers and his nerves, the maiden aunt With valor pours five cups, and the soldier's girl In the soldier's hat races to the bandstand. Fondly the mellowing sun comes down, tracing The shoreline with its burning pencils, tipping The lightly balanced shell; and what,In other times, was privilege in love Of seascapes or girls is darkness and corrosion. The evenings are private with but a little laug

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Of Men and Places

By Royall H. Snow

It is always there, rattling the teacups at four, Tilting the seagull on his favorite perch, Twitting his gaudy eye. But in the town, Well-used to it, bread is delivered […]

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