Brigid MacArthur-Thompson, ‘17 Plastic beads swinglike rosaries through the leavesAnd the sidewalks have scarsFrom the rising water.The roots grow big enoughThat as you walk,You could be upended at any second.And the ocean waits, ready to rush inAnd fade us into oblivion.The trees must be as oldAs my soul,Because the closest I’ve come to findingGodIs on…

(My apologies to Shakespeare.) When the morning sun shines through the room, And Bob the trash man collects the cans, And Tom the janitor picks up the broom, And the only sound is the dorm room fans; When the covers are thrown, and you shoot a scowl, Then loudly sings that box so foul, Bo-beep,…