The body has two seasons and doesn't exist to be changed; it itself changes-as moths come into a field, then the hunted deer. Who knows from the outside where death grows? A man rubs his eyes as if to recover some first sight. Clouds scuttle. There is rain; there's snow; a northerly wind crushing in its teeth the year's seeds. He is pushed inside out like a glove showing its lining. Things simply are. First published in @3The Kenyon Review@1, Volume 22 #2 Spring 2000. www.kenyonreview.org/roth | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FLORENCE VANE by PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE A MATCH by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE FIFTY FAGGOTS by PHILIP EDWARD THOMAS SONG OF YOUTH by LULU PIPER AIKEN THEN AND NOW by JEAN JACQUES ANTOINE AMPERE PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 14. AL-MUZAWWIR by EDWIN ARNOLD |