Winter 1985 • Vol. VII No. 1 Poetry |

Pillage

The sun has done its eternal damage, pine warped to the white, arthritic shins of men who once shouldered the hung come-alongs and galled harness, who led out the heavy striders of the hills and stood to watch the green strings of hunger pool the pigeon-dusted floor. Here they raised the roofholders, beams axed from a profligate country's brood of oak, a stoutness unrelenting still, equal to the blown and scattered seasons of men's will. Against the wall a startled swallow beats against our presence, stirring the rich reek of the world that lives here now, the dead unmocked by what we want to know. In a darkness of webs a shadow moves and hugely shakes the light, an old confusion that holds us fixed between desire and fear. Barn, we say, as if the saying means where we are is only this safe-still sanctuary of wood, as if who or why we are here is as known and unimpeachable as Prince Albert grim on his can, embraced by a swirl of webs. Heads lowered under the great cathedral roof whe

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Descending

By Dave Smith

The sun has done its eternal damage, pine warped to the white, arthritic shins of men who once shouldered the hung come-alongs and galled harness, who led out the heavy […]

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