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

The Roof Men

    may be drunk, or stoned. They stand atop the library like an indolent frieze, or loll on cornice, chimney pot, and parapet.     The bell tower is their time clock, its hands     big as God's. They stir caldrons of tar that smell like cancer, smoke cigarettes and stir, spit comets into the alumni garden     aiming for Cupid, whistle at the coeds far     below, deaf to their influence on heaven. One man works while a dozen supervise him, and campus, and the sky ready to leak,     remote as their next paycheck or the weekend.     The roof men cough, laugh, fake a fight, and stir tar so black it seems composed of all the letters in all the books below,     drawn to their broth like moths to final light.

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    may be drunk, or stoned. They stand atop the library like an indolent frieze, or loll on cornice, chimney pot, and parapet.     The bell tower is their time clock, its […]

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    may be drunk, or stoned. They stand atop the library like an indolent frieze, or loll on cornice, chimney pot, and parapet.     The bell tower is their time clock, its […]

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