new zealand electronic poetry centre

S o m e   s h e l l s   i n   a   t o b a c c o   t i n

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                                                                                          Vivienne Plumb


The boy in the shop grins like a carved pumpkin
he is so pleased. And takes my money.

The sleet outside stabs my plumply face
a thousand little daggers.
And in the Ice Pick Hotel, as I prefer to call it,
we can hear the wind squealing as it skids around the corner.

The weather is a vast savanna of blotting paper
absorbing the leaves, the grass, that fancy filigree
fountain, the dark slates on the opposite roof;
and we are erased, expunged.
So here comes the white, then this is the white,
and we penetrate the hinterland.