The images are like old friends I no longer have enough in common with. “Three-sweatered like a crusted pine,” “The fisherman scent of imagined
The images are like old friends I no longer have enough in common with. “Three-sweatered like a crusted pine,” “The fisherman scent of imagined
after Yeats I’m getting up soon, and going to the lake, where my father’s cabin leans toward the north, more chinks between the logs
