"Poem Never to Be Read Aloud"
Briefly

"No words can tell us how to live, but to live is to reach for them anyway. Colorless green ideas sleep furiously. Make trouble, not sense: some things should never be made into art."
"The problem is we've been inscribing the violence into lines all along: banks redlining neighborhoods, city planners' interstate slates, the racial covenants etched into deeds."
"If only what we need to say to one another would land so softly on our tongues we could taste it. If only we had screamed and incinerated the other four precincts while we had the chance."
"The problem isn't only what happened, it's how much remains the same. There are no words are still words."
Read at The New Yorker
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