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Excerpting Senior Writers: Justin Wymer '12

Wymer reflects on writing his poetry thesis.

the fetid burbling of hermit thrushes crack

open in wind—Be at home in them—

Just now, the faint bone-

system of the wicker-broom still held in scent

from the oil

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preserves the tan-blond

nerves of hard silhouettes—sour now—

there is no food for them—

If one bends to see the blown glass

laying its trance on each of the ribs

the motion closes, the breath

builds skin, pocks—at once the fingers are dank

root systems—uncover

foxmilk, spoils, troves of ash—

cavernous purples—

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