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This winter will be different, the kettle
is copper and the sun for the first time
splashing, knocks
as if it remembers how water
led through in darkness, amazed
the pipe is so thin and the well
huge—this winter the spout
will coil, pull the sun
to its side and the floor
is shaking too—this time the light
will not turn away and the water
dark red, learning to see underwater
under foothills and icy streams—this winter
you will ask how much like an arc
and the tea whiter, whiter.