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Rosemary Sullivan (1947-)

Passe-Port


              1We pass the turnstile
              2into your country.
              3The computer spits you out --
              4You're no longer on its mind.

              5I always thought a country
              6was the way the trees unleave
              7in your head or the snow
              8falls on your childhood, thought it
              9part of the landscape you become.
            10The stories that sink roots into history
            11and repeat themselves like litanies:
            12the family,
            13bone-ladder you descended
            14from somewhere.

            15But you tell me a country
            16is really a door.
            17They can close it.


Online text copyright © 2004, Ian Lancashire for the Department of English, University of Toronto.
This poem cannot be published anywhere without the written consent of Rosemary Sullivan or Black Moss Press permissions department.
Published by the Web Development Group, Information Technology Services, University of Toronto Libraries.

Original text: Blue Panic (Windsor, Ontario: Black Moss Press, 1991): 47. PS 8587 .U52 B58 Robarts Library
RPO poem editor: Ian Lancashire
RP edition: 2004
Recent editing: 1:2004/7/15


Other poems by Rosemary Sullivan