My Plastic Glasses

lost in translation

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These days which, like yourself,
Seem empty and effaced
Have avid roots that delve
To work deep in the waste.
But nothing's lost. Or else: all is translation
And every bit of us is lost in it...
And in that loss a self-effacing tree,
Color of context, imperceptibly
Rustling with its angel, turns the waste
To shade and fiber, milk and memory.
~james merrill