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Skate Now a year after your death, fish-mother, skate, you swim up off the surface of the earth: your other-worldly face not saying anything face I can never meet inside the inside face not since the land came wet out of the water, face under all the pieces of light, how could I get to you? Never leave you. Please you! Teacher, spine in my spine: the spelling of the world kneels down before the skate. Guardian Angel in New York You stood in the doorway in the snow: Times Square, a late hour. The sill was black with chicken’s blood: your black boots open: your glasses like O’s: you touched your finger to your lips, you said, Here: Wisdom. Wisdom and power. To Plath, to Sexton So what use was poetry to a white empty house? the river at wolf 215 ...

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