We were consigned little boxes, identical, filled with milk, from no maternity. They are warnings and completeness, they are scraps. In the hour of a notebook, this desiccated notebook. "The eyes don't find me." Warnings and completeness. Of the one who accompanied us on terrafirma we all preserve the style. Used by permission of Story Line Press. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...REAR-PORCHES OF AN APARTMENT-BUILDING by MAXWELL BODENHEIM IDYLLS OF THE KING: GERAINT AND ENID by ALFRED TENNYSON IDYLLS OF THE KING: LANCELOT AND ELAINE by ALFRED TENNYSON SONNET TO NIGHT by JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE AFTER THE SOIREE by F. R. D. B. FRAGMENTS INTENDED FOR DEATH'S JEST-BOOK: DAY OF SURPASSING BEAUTY by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |