This poem is taken from PN Review 74, Volume 16 Number 6, July - August 1990.
Three Poems
Walking Home
A room
In a Bishop's palace. Diocesan matters
Sedately filed. Stencils.
In winter, sometimes,
Sunset pouring through an oak - so old,
Arms are chained to head.
It fires indignant, glinting its bonds.
The typewriter answers,
Simmering red ...
Why not such fantasies? Machine and I
Have done our work, meticulous -
No less efficient
Because sunsets change us.
It is, that lonely tasks
Breed fancies. Years of walking home
Through the great garden have enriched,
...
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