The snow and the twilight have turned the air as cloudy blue as seaglass, so that trees, telephone poles, houses with yellow-lit windows, fade off much more quickly into the dusk as into fog. I shoveled the front walk and the driveway twice in the same hour and they don't look it. Three days ago, I walked into Harvard Square under such warmth of the sun that I was carrying my jacket over my arm before I'd gotten ten feet from the subway, thinking that any day now I could sing "Wild Mountain Thyme." This ghost-blue storm is midwinter, not less than a week from spring. I baked apples for dessert; I'm translating Greek lyric. Right now, I can live with this.
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- 1: There's more room on the basement couch
- 2: A stranger light comes on slowly
- 3: A kidnapper wouldn't jump into a cold sea
- 4: I might fail math if you don't move your shoulder
- 5: One boundary makes another
- 6: I swear only this city knows
- 7: It's maybe five minutes onscreen
- 8: From the morning past the evening to the end of the light
- 9: I bought Blue Velvet on a DVD
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