When with my judgment I laymyself out to the tepid peace of every day,the docile afternoons, the wide and naturalsleep, no longer opposed to the climatethat equal and still caresses me instead– the cl…
Peter Robinson
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A turkey-oak two hundred years old nowno one has pollarded. Beneath itthere live vipers – woody elbows acheagainst the back. And one nightupon the roots, you rebelled, and with such violenceas to rema…
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in the wind they sowed their long phrases– like scarves they'd wave in the wind – the wind ripped many scarves by chanceand carried them away in frayed cloud shapes –the poet always scatters her…
