Poems by Paul Muldoon

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I was making my way home late one night
When the master was calling the roll
Two Workmen were carrying a sheet of asbestos
Even as we speak, there's a smoker's cough
My eldest sister arrived home that morning
They're kindly here, to let us linger so late,
I, too, have trailed my father's spirit
To think that, as a boy of thirteen, I would grapple
I am stretched out under the lean-to
He opens the scullery door, and a sudden rush
Now that we've come to the end
Seven o'clock. The seventh day of the seventh month of the year.
Although I have never learned to mow
Comes to mind as another small
My father and mother, my brother and sister
It begins with one or two soldiers
Why Brownlee left, and where he went,

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