I say most sincerely and desperately, HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Having rowed a little farther away from the cliff
Which is my kind of religion
Adrift in the darkness but readying oars
How can there be too many stars and hands, I ask you
—
I would be disingenuous if I said "being understood" were not important to me
Between the ceiling of private dream and the floor of public speech
Between the coin and the hand it crosses
Mercantilists' and governors' and preachers' alike
The imagination and its products so often rebuff purpose
And some of us don't like it, and want to make it mean
I would never shoot you, even if you were the only meat around
—
Anyway, I empathize with your lower division semester (which sounds
kinda Dante, to me)
Snow-bound sounds gorgeous and inconvenient
Like the idea of ending on the internal rhyme of psychics and clients
Though I too privilege the "shiny"
And of course, I want to be approved of, so much
Despite the image I've been savoring, the one of the self-stitching wound
Yes, I want to write that self-healing wound poem, the one with
cocoon closed up with thorns
We are getting such lovely flourishes from our poets
Fathomless opportunities for turning literacy into event
It's the drama of feeling we find such an aesthetic problem,
these days
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