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
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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Harvard Poets Celebrated for Arts First