Music by Elizabeth Douthitt Sharp
It’s actually a question. Something to think about. The collective noun, distinguished from the plural. Not mere lines on a page— not mere words to be read. If it were perfectly predictable, it wouldn’t be worth your trouble. The future is uncertain, so each must make its own way A. until its way as a whole coheres and resolves. B. until its embers gather to warm your cold cold hands. C. until the thing like a mole burrows into your heart. D. until the poem as a whole pops up like a wack-a-mole.