We rose from rapture but an hour ago.
-Edna St. Vincent Millay, Sonnet no. XXVIII, Collected Sonnets Perennial 1970
The aching ear bends to silence.
And the eye waters to see more.
How dutifully I bled my senses of their ease,
Their years of water.
My instinct with nominal things is to claim them
As memory.
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