I think continually of the differences. Foolish ever to have believed that change is not absolute. Suddenly, peeling an orange becomes utterly futile like these days that seize in time, like this particular day, which is the end of the world, disgusting, truly strange, and we long to cross the differences and plunge into nostalgia, that "acceptable disease." Life is setting; but not behind the hill where the bob white called at evening. It falls in Solvay behind the refineries. Nothing calls. The argon-lighted billowing gasses fill the western sky all night across the lake. The sterile water flashes, @3Mistake, mistake@1. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPRING'S NEBRASKA by KAREN SWENSON LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS by MATTHEW ARNOLD THE RUINED MAID by THOMAS HARDY SUMMER MATURES by HELENE JOHNSON COWLEY: THE GARDEN by ALEXANDER POPE THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE; A LEGEND OF FRANCE by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM |