This perfect bound book of poems by Louise Ritchey Conant has a cloth bound cover with gold foil stamp, and a long lasting smythe sewn interior.
And then they were gone,
the air shut tight behind them.
Where they had been,
grass lying flat and brown,
and pennies slicked thin as if by a train.
Then it was time to plug up the trees,
shake down the acorns from their twigs,
muzzle the bees.
Time to bale the brook with wire, freeze
the fluttering of birds.
Then canvas, and a loop of twine,
labels licked and applied, a tune
playing on a reed, a brief ceremony and it was done.
Nothing left alive except a pheasant
dragging his idiot beauty across the lawn.