This poem is taken from PN Review 100, Volume 21 Number 2, November - December 1994.
Eight Poems
At Seven a Son
In cold weather on a
garden swing, his legs
in Wellingtons rising over
the winter rose trees
he sits serenely
smiling like a Thai
his coat open, his gloves
sewn to the flapping sleeves
his thin knees working
with his arms
folded about the
metal struts
as he flies up
(his hair like long
black leaves) he
lies back freely
...
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