Summer 2002 • Vol. XXIV No. 3/4 PoetryJuly 1, 2002 |

Where the Arrows Fell

"Sent out of sight, somewhere becoming rain." —Philip Larkin   At the upturns of your grin, the red beard                          this year's begun threading itself with white.           "Each aged hair a gift"—kiss—"from you."                     You're joking, mostly. But in some deeper sense it's true: we're marred now, you've vowed                          your life and all your coming years to me.                     Whatever other nuptial rites we cast out                          as too tribal, not our style—the virgin           gown, the given girl, the fertility— provoking garter—we assume we'll weather                     through the turning hairs, or their decline,           together. And if we're successful, one of us,

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"Sent out of sight, somewhere becoming rain." —Philip Larkin   At the upturns of your grin, the red beard                          this year's begun threading itself with white.           "Each aged hair a […]

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"Sent out of sight, somewhere becoming rain." —Philip Larkin   At the upturns of your grin, the red beard                          this year's begun threading itself with white.           "Each aged hair a […]

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