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Which cannot be written tries anyway—
From one room to another, each time startled
And does not want to hear of the already
Passed through, the country of before.
At each door poem believes itself
In the room closest to the end
Where finally everything will be gone over;
Dismantled, held up, carefully laid back down
While talked into the beauty which can turn
In a minute. To hear of every other
Poem written is to begin
Revision and what cannot be left enough
Alone and so the lovers look at each other
Until none else can come near. Poem
Which never wanted anything but this
Tries anyway, oh so brave, unable to know where
She heads; unwrapping until only a gift
Which cannot be given as it cannot be let go.
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Both regulators and employers have embraced new technologies for on-the-job monitoring, turning a blind eye to unjust working conditions.
But I do miss the hymns, / the small, hard apples with their dimpled skin. I do miss / things.
The vast hinterlands of the Global South’s cities are generating new solidarities and ideas of what counts as a life worth living.