THE ARCHIVES: Chapter 147

Wild Nights

I thought I might have studied
the poem in seventh or eighth grade.
Something about the verses
was familiar to my ears
and my lips as I whispered them out loud.
“Wild Nights” by Emily Dickinson
The carefree exuberance of it
reminded me of Gary.
The way the verses stopped short
on dashes—was like the way he walked.
I copied the poem down
onto a perfect sheet of paper,
carefully folded it into a football shape,
and tucked it into the black envelope.
If anyone would appreciate a poem
(besides my crush?),
it would be Gary.

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