Fall 1992 • Vol. XIV No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 1992 |

New Language This Meaning

Day: an open palm. Morning: a nut cupped in a fist. Overgrown grass throws shadows,   like days in a row, across the square lawn.   Days are numbered here in this July of minutes. Take them. Take the river that stops and starts a few times a day,   the truck that can't take the hill so it's parked   up top and I walk. I need aspirin and a two-day supply of cigarettes. All four tires low, I pump them up   with the help of James at Texaco.   The errand takes most of the morning. Did you see the colt nuzzling the saw grass stacked like bread or miles of gold fence?   We could have driven these same roads, moonlit,   after drinks in Café 1906. Clay roads rainbowed behind us. Special dust. Instead, what to hold in the palm of lunch?   A stone house I imagine we live in?   Whether or not to strip the beds. All night I waited for the three o'clock train to wake me. I lay awake. Afternoon   drive to the library. Curtains blow

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Work Song

By Robyn Selman

Day: an open palm. Morning: a nut cupped in a fist. Overgrown grass throws shadows,   like days in a row, across the square lawn.   Days are numbered here in this […]

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By Robyn Selman

Day: an open palm. Morning: a nut cupped in a fist. Overgrown grass throws shadows,   like days in a row, across the square lawn.   Days are numbered here in this […]

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