and everything is a wetness—and
the forehead feels the
sky permit it—Then
a reddish silence claps over everything—
moths drown in that well, their strong ligaments
dissolve into curs barking—
If I can protect you it can only be from
the blurts of knives—the spacious
licks of mauve—The dolls’ heads
that roll out of them and away
are not without eyes, no one has yet to
eat them—So I ask you to
lean in—Know the cold is just-done from
the bleached semen smell of chestnuts
blooming—clean splinterish light that threads
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Harvard Poets Celebrated for Arts First