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If the poet didn’t tell you everything,
It is because so much work was already done
With light, and how the light affects the darkness,
So I merely needed to mention the sun,
And everything everyone borrowed for their labor
Flowed into this easy symbol of mine,
Changing water and words into poetry and wine.
What I left carelessly for you,
Invoked things you forgot you knew.
You worked, you slaved, and still, everything died.
I didn’t have to do anything, but think
You would—and you cried.
