This may be the only poem I've ever enjoyed reading in The New Yorker. I found it freshman year of college, alone in my gray room, on a snowy afternoon. I tore it out, and taped it on my wall for many apartments and years to come. Then one day, I put it away in a box. On this dark February night, I remembered Blue Song, and how it speaks to my sadness.
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This may be the only poem I've ever enjoyed reading in The New Yorker. I found it freshman year of college, alone in my gray room, on a snowy afternoon. I tore it out, and taped it on my wall for many apartments and years to come. Then one day, I put it away in a box. On this dark February night, I remembered Blue Song, and how it speaks to my sadness.