Fall 2007 • Vol. XXIX No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 2007 |

Pound

Ninth of May, rain, and the prices are crap. And the Indian preachers still make a good impression On the lonely wives—this is so far from the piazzas and espressos (the    dosage here small and black). Nothing a banker would understand like barnstorming rebels or race    relations. There's little reprieve from this blare, little to splint, like a mind. America is all markdown now, and its music full of antic scams, And its esprit de corps is snagged like the national income, And its frontiersmen are too satisfied with roughage. In this I understand little, squeaking like an ugly cousin, pocked face,    worse than fraternal. It's as if failure were less fickle than I expected it to be. Courage—once    the rage— Is now all crank and glissando (the old courage resembled the nuthatch, Hopping with chatter, down the bark of a tree).

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The Wife’s Tale

By David Biespiel

Ninth of May, rain, and the prices are crap. And the Indian preachers still make a good impression On the lonely wives—this is so far from the piazzas and espressos […]

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