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Philip Booth



Autumn 1958 | Poetry

Girl, if this treegrows evil, ifknowing, youmay only seesome devil, andif your first tasteis sin, thenlogically: one taste is two,to keep’s to give,forever wentdown with the sun,all light is dark,haste is slow,to find’s to lose,and sight must [...]

The Way Tide Comes

IT came close from out far, the way tide comes, changing its levels with such consistent slowness that—before I knew it—height became depth, and where you danced barefoot, a half-tide ago, covered itself, under so moving a shimmer I could not co [...]