Margin: Exploring Modern Magical 



So many crutches. Now even the daylight
Needs one, even the smoke
As it goes up. And the shacks --
One per customer -- they move off
In a single file with difficulty,

I said, with a hell of an effort . . .
And the trees behind them about to stumble,
And the ants on their toy-crutches,
And the wind on its ghost-crutch.

I can't get any peace around here:
The bread on its artificial limbs,
A headless doll in a wheelchair,
And my mother, mind you, using
Two knives for crutches as she squats to pee.

c h a r l e s   s i m i c
d u r h a m ,   n e w   h a m p s h i r e

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