“Tell all the truth but tell it slant—”
So you whispered, Emily, through shrouded lace,
while your pen carved light into Amherst shadows.
But truth, even slant, can cut,
and not all knives find a hand to hone them.
And Edgar, my storm-eyed specter,
you swore the raven perched forevermore,
yet wings were made to fold and unfurl.
Did you fear that flight...
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