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What To Do

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Places we leave
slick our bodies
with silky air
or foam we feel
faithful and tickly
(even somehow taste)
but can't clearly see.
We wear its weight
like atmosphere—
runs, blots
of what we've done
in and with
each place
—what to do
with it now?—
and what it does
to us still.

Source: Poetry (June 2008)

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This poem originally appeared in the June 2008 issue of Poetry magazine

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What To Do

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