My burning is my burning, but it is also the world’s flame.
My breathing is the world’s breathing, the world breathing the same.
The body is a body, but this world is a name.

In my fit is the world’s anger and spasm;
Sitting in it is a secret knowledge: a thrum.
Tell me to speak, I am deaf; tell me to listen, I am dumb.
The science fiction always springs from scientific fact.
The story is the memory, torn, as it walks back.
When the storm comes to my window, in frozen rivulets of snow,
Buried in that multitude of flakes is one separate thing I used to know.
The burying is my knowledge, burying my knowledge,
White roads, sky, pregnant with snow; the announcement closed the college;
Everything is blocked, and for the sake of getting a look,
I am reassembling my sorrow, sorrowfully, in a book.
Here is my poem; you can go to it right now.
We can stay up all night; this much love will allow.


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