Sep 1967 • Vol. XXIX No. 4 PoetrySeptember 1, 1967 |

The Sea Cliff (Calypso)

She found him facing out into the fog At the edge of the sea, stooping, winnowing Stones with all the care of the demented, Hurling them into the murk, low along The surface, skipping them like petrels. He wandered by the shore, halting and stooping, Leaning abruptly for additional Hates to send spinning out to sea. She watched from the cliff over his restlessness And ached to hold him in her arms--held Herself away from him, for an embrace Would only remind his body of its bruises. Hobbling a step, stooping, sorting the stones, Hurling them again, as though he hoped To force them, slippery beneath the sea, To draw him after them, he threw and threw. The shore wind whipped the bracken by the path, Pressed out against the fog which yielded to it And took it in and closed and gave no ground. A woman could do nothing for him now, Though she had known for months that this was coming-- Long before he guessed, even before She herself could have put it into words-- His occupation gone, his

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The Theft

By Daniel Mark Epstein

She found him facing out into the fog At the edge of the sea, stooping, winnowing Stones with all the care of the demented, Hurling them into the murk, low […]

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