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Tony Crunk



Winter 1993 | Poetry

Were there such an end as destination I could say that I was leaving, could imagine friends gathered on the street below, cheering maybe, waving maps tied to sticks. But there isn't. There is only expansion and contraction, like infinity, or a dime o [...]


1. Window lying in the thistle eye that never closes burnt chimney rising above the goldenrod like Christ blessing the children iron hinge in the ashes wings that fell to earth broken teeth of the cemetery fence a sacred harp rusting shadows of the m [...]