The New Yorker: Poetry cover image

Nick Laird Reads Elizabeth Bishop

The New Yorker: Poetry

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The Belt of Galloways

I like to feel the work i am exerting being changed. Thus hammocks, snorkling alcohol and a kind of neutral buoyancy. To that end, i set aside a day a week, chabat, do not act. Having seded independence to the sunset, i will not be shaving, illuminating rooms or raising the temperature of food. If occasionally, i like to feeling the leavening of being near a much larger, unnatural tension. I walk off a sunday through the high fields of blanketborg saxifrage,. A few thin belted galloways rounding lock malin in scrubby acre at kregendevsky. What i do duckand enter

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