![]() ![]() “Iain Pollock’s eye is guided by passion-a passion for the city and street life, and the hard facts of individual lives amidst the violence and turmoil of American life today. Pollock delivers moments of levity, lyric beauty, and a creeping melancholy that lend his work its distinct atmosphere.” The sun burns a light spot in the ashen expanse of cloud, a dull shine like an answer to a questionĪbout a time or place that I know I should knowīut cannot, cannot bring myself to remember. Here, every morning, I see the same woman walking her beagle as it strains against its lead, the same Same rock as the wall, schist hauled up from the bed of a broader creek this road followed before bending Now that the road has wound out of the valley, the houses have changedįrom brick and flat-roofed to gabled and stone. ![]() I just left, where my wife is shading her eyesĪnd straightening her cardigan. (A gap for a footbridge still interrupts the masonry.) Before the park, the houses were like the one Until the city tunneled its water into a sewer line. ![]() A stone wall lines the road margin where a creek ran In the cold and the blanched, marcescent leaves With all the bareness, even at speed, I can seeįar into the woods, the only hint of foliage deep green ellipticals of rhododendron curling Trunks sprawling up slopes on either side of the road, will be my last idea of this town. To a green cathedral, all still and solemn in the high humidity-we leave the city ![]()
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