This poem is taken from PN Review 152, Volume 29 Number 6, July - August 2003.
Three PoemsFrom the Tate
Tell the paintness of the real,
the saturated world wrapped
around this threshold.
How buttery the river is.
A flutter of greys. Crimson
smears routed over the bridge.
Snails consume the self
in scrawling; my footprints
dissolve in the warm glaze
on these paving stones;
a passage trails light
across the largest canvas.
Cours Belsunce: a Course in Good Sense
When I was young, my grandmother told me
If you want to live long,
eat garlic every day.
Violet, dry, renowned good-keeper.
...
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