issue 27 > poetry > slavitt

Dick Wilbur’s laundry, flapping in that alley,
may have suggested angels, or aspiration,
or a mere distaste for life in a maculate world.
It’s a long line to hang such stuff on. Mine

demotes me; I become my body’s servant
who can neither quit nor complain. At best, it suspends
intellect and all its pretensions: the only
thinking it requires is matching socks.






Also by David R. Slavitt:

Iris