Maps. Maps. Maps. Venezuela, Keewanaw, Iceland open up unfolding and when I get to them they'll look like maps. New pilgrims everywhere won't visit tombs, need living monuments to live again. But there are only tombs to visit. They left her in the rain tied to the water with cobwebs, stars stuck like burrs to her hair. I found her by her wailing. It's obvious I'll never go to Petersburg and Akhmadulina has married another in scorn of my worship of her picture. You're not fooling yourself -- if you weren't a coward you'd be another target in Chicago, tremulous bull's-eye for hog fever. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SELF-DEPENDENCE by MATTHEW ARNOLD THE BABES IN THE WOOD; OR, THE NORFOLK TRAGEDY by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON by H. T. MACKENZIE BELL GOD'S ACRE by CHARLOTTE LOUISE BERTLESEN A HOUSE IN FESTUBERT by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN PSALMS OF THE SEA: THE CONVERT by EVERETT BOSTON HOMUNCULUS IN PENUMBRA by GORDON BOTTOMLEY |