A Poet Reflects

Here are my gifts:    smudges of bud,A blame of lime.    Everything your remember crowds Away.  Stubble memory, The wallpaper peeling its leaves.    Fog.    Fog In the attic; this pod of black milk.    Anymore,
Only a road like August approaches.
Sometimes the drawers of the earth close; Sometimes our stories keep on and on.    So listen—
Leave no address.    Fold your clothes into a little Island.    Kiss the hinges goodbye.    Sand the fire.    Bitch About time.    Hymn away this reliquary fever.
—David St. John, lines from “Elegy” in The Shore (Houghton Mifflin, 1980)

Here are my gifts:    smudges of bud,
A blame of lime.    Everything your remember crowds
Away.  Stubble memory,
The wallpaper peeling its leaves.    Fog.    Fog
In the attic; this pod of black milk.    Anymore,

Only a road like August approaches.

Sometimes the drawers of the earth close;
Sometimes our stories keep on and on.    So listen—

Leave no address.    Fold your clothes into a little
Island.    Kiss the hinges goodbye.    Sand the fire.    Bitch
About time.    Hymn away this reliquary fever.

—David St. John, lines from “Elegy” in The Shore (Houghton Mifflin, 1980)

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