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Poem by Hilda Doolittle Heat O wind, rend open the heat, cut apart the heat, rend it to tatters. Fruit cannot drop through this thick air-- fruit cannot fall into heat that presses up and blunts the points of pears and rounds the grapes. Cut the heat-- plough through it, turning it on either side of your path. Hilda Doolittle Hilda Doolittle's other poems: ![]() 937 Views |
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