MacCaig Poetry

The hospital smell (a)   my nostrils.

where I've lain at night in the (a)   darkness.

So who's the (a)   ?

how clever it was of Giotto to make his (a)   tell stories.

he walks the sidewalk and the thin (a)   over violence

But now midnight has come in from (a)   places.

A withered hand (a)   on its stalk.

she lay (a)   in the absolute black of a sandy grave.

To stub an oar on a (a)   where none should be.

said Grazie in a voice as (a)   as a child's.