To the pretty girl in the dining hall with the buzzcut -
you couldn't look as if you wanted more to be celibate.
You wouldn't know it's spring by your winter-look,
the heavy, long skirt made of dark ash and tilled soot;
sackcloth doesn't become you now. But solitude forgets
to move outward. Forgets to look past potential regrets,
through the light of the Book instead of at it, instead
those pages fill you not with wildness but a cold dark quiet.