Nov 1967 • Vol. XXIX No. 5 Poetry |

Orpheus

Between two lines of print a voice Is tearing. Newspaper ink spreads on the tips of my fingers. I pull toward me, making the fine sound. It is a falls, a whisper, a stretch of giving like the shout of a far crowd. There is a sharpness to it, a note like fat burning. Even thinking gets into it, this stripping between facts. It is the news of a last speech. Tall women are running through the high grass toward bloody water.

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Epithalamion

By Michael Goldman

Between two lines of print a voice Is tearing. Newspaper ink spreads on the tips of my fingers. I pull toward me, making the fine sound. It is a falls, […]

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