In the Fall

The London Magazine - - SASKIA HAMILTON -

“You’re not go­ing in there – ?” I turned but there was no pas­sage on wak­ing.


Dogs pros­trate un­der the ta­ble, mud dry on their flanks. Milk in the pan of onions.


The change to schist along that road, earth in the bro­ken as­phalt, gates or doors, main­verb­less­ness, lapidary bees in the walls, stones fallen short of the swollen stream north from where it joins the sea and crosses my mouth.


In the book­shop, at the counter, the man at the regis­ter adds up the cost, and you, “Don’t you want Apol­li­naire’s letters? You with your French tongue –” And Mi­nor Poets of the Caro­line Pe­riod (3 vols.).


What to think of while all the while think­ing only of your hand think­ing.

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