Poetry

John Whitworth: Four Poems

Cogitations at the Launderette    My shirts spin round and round As earth spins on its axis. They make a wistful sound; It sings of death and taxes. It sings like piping, clyping birds. I try to memorize the words.   What are the dreams they sell In paragraphs exquisite? What is the truth they tell? What is it and what is it? The shadow-line of things unseen, Memorials of what has been.   I liked the way it was, The to-ing and the fro-ing, The way it was, because I see it going, going, The phantoms of my yesterdays,…

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