You know. When Major Jackson
Composed that poem, You, Reader,
The words were reading him back,
In and out of scattered clouds
Above lighthouses. We were
Ready to read, primed to turn
Ourselves like cornered wavelengths
In our artificial calm.
We do this all the time, we
Do, and not just when poets
Invite us, apostrophize
Their own imaginations,
Bait the lines with pronoun hooks,
You, and you, and you. Yes, us,
We have ourselves been readers,
Too, sweeping the great lake’s waves
With this artifice of lights.
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