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14 Cards in this Set
- Front
- Back
The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached though you might bathe under rain gutters, monsoon. |
The Cinnamon Peeler - Michael Ondaatje
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turning point in the Home Rule Movement
and led to Ceylon's independence in 1948. (My mother had done her share too- her driving so bad she was stoned by villagers |
Letters & Other Worlds - Michael Ondaatje
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lost relatives of these
whose hooves were thunder the ghosts of horses battering thru the wind whose names were the wind's common usage |
Cariboo Horses - Al Purdy
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he wouldn't recommend it, he would say,
squeezing his spyglass shut and putting it back in its maroon velvet box. we make the usual small gestures of disappointment as if we'd run out of luck in a ticket line and i say goodbye |
Elegey, the Fertility Specialist - Sharon Thesen
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Later the ceasing
of the rain and a mildness extends itself & holds me as i walk through fragile groups of mourners |
Afternoon with Liver - Sharon Thesen
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there were only two corpses
on the pavement that day and the child i will not write about had a face as pale and trusting as the moon |
The Child Dancing - Gwendolyn MacEwen
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have lots of meat
on their bones. they're not starving, hobbled horses with bony, grinding hips. |
Body Politics - Louise Bernice Halfe
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like its name over the marsh
is touching and holding that small manyveined wrist |
The Great Blue Heron - Don McKay
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Is this
why wars are fought? Enemy territory, no man's land, to be entered furtively, fenced, owned but never surely, scene of these desperate forays |
A Women's Issue - Margaret Atwood
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I ask, what did they deal me in this pack?
The cards, all suits, are royal when I look. My fingers slipping on a monarch's face twitch and grow slack. I want a hand to clutch, a heart to crack. |
Arras - P.K. Page
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and pleated and goffered, the flower-blue sea
the protean, wine-dark, grey, green, sea with its metres of sating and bolts of brocade. |
Planet Earth - P.K. Page
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the poorly calculated overdose
who lies ina bed somewhere not knowing how her life drips through her drop by measured drop we want to think of death as something sudden |
The Woman in This Poem - Bronwen Wallace
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I can imagine them
not saying anything, sitting, snow swirling inthe headlights, wondering |
Your Body - Jan Zwicky
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There was an economist
who liked to talk about poetry. the other secretaries wondered but said nothing. |
The Dress - Patricia Young
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