This collection of torches convulsing in ink:
it is not what I wanted to give you.
All whites look older at night and yet
the tapestry has to include them….
I wanted you to sip this one swatch of light
that stands singly, and
the tan peasant wind that catches and fans
the thin milk of its undergarment, and
how morning blood un-hasps
the hatches behind sleep's cogs, flooding
and the blasted furnace that risks ecstasis
according to… Is this truly the color of my hands?
I wanted to give you the searing first glance
again, wanted you to grab and fold
into that one swatch of cloth
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Harvard Poets Celebrated for Arts First