PlymouthAuthor(s): Brian YoungSource: The Iowa Review, Vol. 26, No. 3 (Fall, 1996), p. 66Published by: University of IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20154338 .

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Brian Young

Plymouth

These trees are the wild and twisted red shades

of our lost daughters, limitless is the motion

above the graves, as the sky recoils for winter,

and the fluctuating afternoons beyond the unceasing

and perfect water, the remnant of sky where the crow chokes,

the fingering blackout that waits in the east,

and we aren't really here in these names

we've broken open, as the sky chews on your shining cherry, and the god which is said to inhabit the hideous dream

of architecture, and the control box which is killing me,

it kills me when you breathe with me.

66

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