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I couldn’t tell one song from another, which bird said what or to whom or for
The oak tree seemed to be writing something using very few words.
I couldn’t decide which door to open—they looked the same, or what would
I did reach out and turn a knob. I thought I was safe, standing there, but my
its date: only so many summer nights still stood before me, full moon, waning
October mornings: what to make of them? which door?
I couldn’t tell which stars were which or how far away any one of them was, or
were still burning or not—their light moving through space like a long late
and I’ve lived on this earth so long, 50 winters, 50 springs and summers,
and all this time stars have stood in the sky—in daylight when I couldn’t see
at night, when most nights I didn’t look.
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In her new book, Danish poet Olga Ravn writes with open love, pity, and compassion for her strange yet familiar creations.
Draconian individual punishment distracts from systemic change and reinforces the cruelest and most racist system of incarceration on the planet.
Our well-being depends on a better understanding of how the logic of labor has twisted our relationship with pleasure.