This Inwardness, This Ice
(Continued from Page 1)
an air too sharp to pause,
this distance, this burn,
this element of flaws
that winces as it gives.
Nothing to do but live.
Nowhere to be but gone.
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Clickhere to visit Robert Pinsky's Favorite Poem Project site.To submit poetry to Slate, send up to five poems and a self-addressed, stamped envelope to: Robert Pinsky, Slate Magazine, Boston University, 236 Bay State Road, Boston, MA, 02215.
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