Could I ever ferment—and the nature of
my roundnesses soften—the oil-
slicks of May be re-
possessed—Now here, in the crenellated
pause preceding laughter—the magnolias
shriek open—where the old
owls laugh—Leaflessness was never
a prophecy—Pills of
snow curl into their own throats
and lay claim there, intrude on their own
blanched flesh—This ripped light
slits open, releases, cauterizes
every hole —The larvae’s tongues harden somewhere—
the blood-ice seems smudged with
lice—
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Harvard Poets Celebrated for Arts First