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THREE POEMS

THREE POEMS Yesterday's News It seems the same old universe, but little things keep going wrong. For instance, when the streets are gray, you don't know if it's dusk or dawn, Or when you go to reach for things-- a rhyme, let's say, to end the poem, a nail to drive the coffin lid in place-- your fingers grasp and find it gone. As if, having once put down a book, no matter how you looked, you couldn't find your place, or, looking in the mirror, couldn't see your face. 22:3 DOI 10.1215/0961754X-3622333 © 2016 by Duke University Press Crazy, old, and blind. Randall And never once suspect, "Maybe it's my eyesight, Maybe it's my mind," until one day you wake up, You tell yourself it's just bad luck, like playing cards with a crooked deck, you know there's something missing but you don't know what Heads for a Ritual Our faces do not change as we grow old. Instead, the features are more deeply carved, The lines around the mouth more firmly drawn, The cheek more sunken and the bone more bold, Until each day I watch us growing less The public people we once seemed, and more Emphatically http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Common Knowledge Duke University Press

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Publisher
Duke University Press
Copyright
Copyright © Duke Univ Press
ISSN
0961-754X
eISSN
1538-4578
DOI
10.1215/0961754X-3622333
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

Yesterday's News It seems the same old universe, but little things keep going wrong. For instance, when the streets are gray, you don't know if it's dusk or dawn, Or when you go to reach for things-- a rhyme, let's say, to end the poem, a nail to drive the coffin lid in place-- your fingers grasp and find it gone. As if, having once put down a book, no matter how you looked, you couldn't find your place, or, looking in the mirror, couldn't see your face. 22:3 DOI 10.1215/0961754X-3622333 © 2016 by Duke University Press Crazy, old, and blind. Randall And never once suspect, "Maybe it's my eyesight, Maybe it's my mind," until one day you wake up, You tell yourself it's just bad luck, like playing cards with a crooked deck, you know there's something missing but you don't know what Heads for a Ritual Our faces do not change as we grow old. Instead, the features are more deeply carved, The lines around the mouth more firmly drawn, The cheek more sunken and the bone more bold, Until each day I watch us growing less The public people we once seemed, and more Emphatically

Journal

Common KnowledgeDuke University Press

Published: Sep 1, 2016

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