This poem is taken from PN Review 36, Volume 10 Number 4, March - April 1984.
A Dying Race
The less I visit, the more I think
myself back to your elegant house
I grew up in. The drive uncurled
through swaying chestnuts discovers
it standing four square, white-
washed unnaturally clear,
as if it were shown me by lightning.
It's always the place I see,
...
myself back to your elegant house
I grew up in. The drive uncurled
through swaying chestnuts discovers
it standing four square, white-
washed unnaturally clear,
as if it were shown me by lightning.
It's always the place I see,
...
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