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The Write Launch, Spring 2020

Love Letters

It must have been 

the tail end of the season 

in your neck of the woods

when I scratched your back

and you scratched mine and 

we passed our personal belongings

between the openings in our trains of thinking

shooting perilously across the continents of pages,

like walking a knife edge ridge on that mountain 

in Maine we both traversed before we met.

Even now in this place of our own, 

without our pens we walk a narrow path

the depths of the Cosmos 

and the gods of place

on either side.

Fly Balls

I was never very good at sensing the trajectory of high fliers

And in fact once caught a fly ball with my eye socket

Ending my dalliance with baseball


But how quickly healed I was then

Today bones are liable to shatter

Bruises from brazen encounters linger


I still fear that flying hard ball, myself out left of field, looking up,

Balancing an awkwardly oversized mitt, with the bright sun 

Of a good life blinding me from what’s to come. 

Infinite Affair with Air

You are this

which is not



which is not


You owe such and such

to whoever and whom,

need all of that

to accomplish this,

and could never be those

because you’re these.


But maybe this once,

you make some amends,

excepting this, that, and the other thing,

as well as such and such.

“How long will this last?”

someone asks.

You are all of these things,

you reply,

but not all of those,

and tomorrow, all of those,

but not all of these.

(How dare they question!)


All I want to know is

Who am I in all of this?

Who will I be in all of that?

Are you anywhere always?

Or always somewhere at least?

Because I am here now and

tomorrow I may be there.

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