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January in Martinsville
The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound. ~Wallace Stevens, from "No Possum, No Sop, No Taters," first published in New Poems 1943: An Anthology of British and American Verse edited by Oscar Williams