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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=535559" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Dear Low' - Upon His Leaving Mountains For Manhattan, circa 1981</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=535559" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">For Lowery McClendon</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=535559" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">You did it. You left the trout behind.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=535559" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Sunday the corn was cut down. Apple trees<br>in the nearby orchard were felled which explains<br>the screams I heard a week ago, and the droning'<br>of wasps. That hill was exposed this evening at<br>sunset, reflected pink in the sky. Reminds me of<br>the women I always saw through your eyes, <br>their large lips and eyes, the dark thighs particularly, <br>fields without their corn now shedding a purple<br>light like Stevens' Hartford, and you there tonight<br>forsaking the school yard we'd walk beside <br>stopping to comment on that view of hills <br>at our favorite wall where 'Nigger's Pandemonium'<br>stalled on hot nights to break beer bottles for your <br>poems broken glass, curtains you'd pass in the <br>dark where your wheels would splay the stars stuck<br>to tar bubbles on the street when Hart Crane beat <br>his words against your rhythm running down <br>to Montford Park. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=535559" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Be quick about it then, your departure: </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=535559" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I walked through your house.<br>You left behind that crooked frying pan.<br>Your steaks will never taste the same again, <br>and that espresso pot there, too, black stains<br>stuck inside like little Lamont's words, <br>'Are we lost yet? ' Just thrown out like that <br>plaster of paris bone from the kitchen.<br>No dog would chew on that, some kind of<br>sentinel to Arborvale Street signaling something<br>fragile has passed on like Mr. McKnight's <br>roses given over to winter, Indian summer <br>an old squaw, packed up her warm skins <br>and vanished like a wife or lovers. <br>It's like that, you know. No magic but our <br>own so often like that old white bone's intention <br>to be art, our poems strung on the page like <br>slip over chicken wire, words expiring from <br>our clutching at them -</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=535559" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">'You will be beautiful, make meaningful our days.'</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=535559" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">What are our names anymore, Low? </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=535559" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The corn is all cut down. <br>An old scare crow remains. <br>Apropos. Poetry's worn out image<br>stretched out on the hill forlorn in the ice, <br>forgiving no one, especially ourselves, <br>alien corn of a foundering century.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Warren+Falcon">Warren Falcon</a></strong></div>