Summer 1969 • Vol. XXXI No. 3 Poetry |

From the Other Side

Greasy wings, My angel hangs outside the screen. His black lips whisper mud, Old baseball scores, Sermons out of Del Rio Meaningless as a moth's flutterings, And yet he has been sent. Perhaps he is like the messenger Oceanographers send down the line To their instruments: I am not supposed to understand, Only to act When he arrives Sliding down the line Into the depth, the pressure I do not even notice. Let him talk. The screen will keep him out.

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A Dead Girl

By John Taylor

Greasy wings, My angel hangs outside the screen. His black lips whisper mud, Old baseball scores, Sermons out of Del Rio Meaningless as a moth's flutterings, And yet he has […]

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