over everything—I ask you to
listen—you can never possess
the loudness of a tossed cigarette—
Reuse the wicker’s oils, crawl into
the leaves, into the wefts of snow—
in greenish light—I tell you
this: Court the beautiful
tone-deaf woman who stops every day to clench and
pick up a leaf—just outline—
Imagine how she could ever vow for
anything—And know—Nothing
in this brackish ice-lit time was ever
wasted—
Locus
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Harvard Poets Celebrated for Arts First