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Poems

April 1997

A truce

by John Clarke

As suddenly as such a war,
steam signals over our coffee cups—
set on white cloth in tremors of shade—
become propitious: sentries begin
to joke in my village, laugh in yours.
Ambassadors toss old writs to the wind.
Peasants bear laundry down to the river.
Trade routes reopen, crowded with wagons.


John Clarke
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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 15 April 1997, on page 36
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