Blue Panic (Windsor, Ontario: Black Moss Press, 1991): 47. PS 8587 .U52 B58 Robarts Library
1We pass the turnstile
2into your country.
3The computer spits you out --
4You're no longer on its mind.
5I always thought a country
6was the way the trees unleave
7in your head or the snow
8falls on your childhood, thought it
9part of the landscape you become.
10The stories that sink roots into history
11and repeat themselves like litanies:
13bone-ladder you descended
15But you tell me a country
16is really a door.
17They can close it.
RPO poem Editors
<b>This poem cannot be published anywhere without the written consent of Rosemary Sullivan or Black Moss Press permissions department.</b>