pure_morning tender_square you walk with purpose the way you used to, striding stretches of campus, naïve hope siren singing from the big, brick buildings. if only you could be so imposing, unflappable. don’t make eye contact while muttering to yourself “i want to be home,” a desperate dorothy. pure mourning, a scarce patch of sun caresses your cheeks, halves your age, infusing possibility. 220314 what's it to you? who go blather from