Two Poems
Mark Ford, 8 February 2007
“... How it glints, my rifle, in the sun, as it arcs towards the lake. And listen – on the stony beach the ripples whisper, Oh hurryHurry Harry, oh Harry, hurry, hurry . . . The Death of Hart Crane Sir/Madam, I was intrigued by the letter in your last issue from a reader that recounted his meeting, in a bar in Greenwich Village in the mid-sixties, a woman ... ”