Fall 1969 • Vol. XXXI No. 5 PoetryJanuary 1, 1969 |

Reading This Late

Lost in the seamless mind, a tent of sheets, a lamp dropping its pale cone to the poem page—are   you reading?         Only sometimes the lampshade   sheds a spider, or   further from camp   and more obscure a groindark insect rushes on the wall. Read on. For these   can only be   parentheses . . . The radiator sighs, and leaks   brown lakes. Soon all your hair is rustling,   all—Dark drinks the hall and kitchen. These letters crawl   (dark colonies in crannies)   and down the alley something clinks (the wind?) among the empties.

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Lost in the seamless mind, a tent of sheets, a lamp dropping its pale cone to the poem page—are   you reading?         Only sometimes the lampshade   sheds a spider, or   further […]

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Lost in the seamless mind, a tent of sheets, a lamp dropping its pale cone to the poem page—are   you reading?         Only sometimes the lampshade   sheds a spider, or   further […]

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