belated elegy for my ain true hame, as the month is still right

( A Handful of Earth, by Al Purdy )

poem-drunk and dancing

A certain DG Jones has this to say about Al Purdy: "Reading Al Purdy to find a single quotation, I find myself at the end of the poem, at the end of another poem, having forgotten my purpose, as if there were no single line shorter than a poem. Purdy's poems, as Gwen MacEwen says, go round and round and where they stop nobody knows." I am beginning to understand the sentiment. ( Here's another one that sends me in loops: )