David Ignatow (7 February 1914 - 17 November 1997 / Brooklyn/ New York)
The steam hammer pounds with a regularity on steel I should envy.
Neither the hammer nor the steel seems to be suffering from this
terrible meeting between them, proving something vaguely pointed,
that some things must be done, regardless of cost, and finally the
cost too is absorbed in the doing that has become a ritual between
two fated opponents.
Comments about this poem (Two by David Ignatow )
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