Passing Out (Philip Levine Poems)
The doctor fingers my bruise. "Magnificent," he says, "black at the edges and purple cored." Seated, he spies for clues, ...
The doctor fingers my bruise. "Magnificent," he says, "black at the edges and purple cored." Seated, he spies for clues, ...
Beaten like an old hound Whimpering by the stove, I complicate the pain That smarts with promised love. The oilstove ...
You pull over to the shoulder of the two-lane road and sit for a moment wondering where you were going ...
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