His letters

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Are in a wooden box with a twig (meaning indeterminate) and a photograph of us,

Taken the day he sang Paul Robeson songs in the musty living room

Within the crush of books

He worked hard.

His writing is equal parts knowledge and its refinement

The letters are filled with love but that
wasn’t good enough—

Let these louses confuse him with themselves

At long last I understand “The Cote Basque”;

A certain farouche daring,

What his marble limbs feel like in the sun,

Warm and sheltering—ask the alert sparrows, drawn to rain-swells
and tears.

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