| Would winter in China be so innate?
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| With flashlight and desk globe, I pretend I’m the sun
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| The earth is turning an impolite child and I can’t take care of it all
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| I yawn at the man who’s delighted by snow
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| Collects it in jars that are stored in the freezer, labeled by year,
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| and fearing a blackout
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| It’s time to go nowhere
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| In the overstuffed chair
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| Wearing the dunce cap and waiting for wisdom to hit
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| This winter chews up my life, paralyzes my father, makes things so idle
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| Not even the stars pulsate
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| Like nervous eyelids
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| This winter has numbed us like a fly in an ice cube
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| No bobbing, no hearing chatter
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| This season reminds me of some tedious death
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| Where you listen and listen and there’s nothing to dance to
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| Nothing to signal an impending good time
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| Even danger is dormant, brewing its core
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| I’ll join it, waiting for spring and its millions of noises |