Collect as many pictures and letters as you can: yellowed by now, crumbly and stale as biscuits left to harden in a dented tin. Lines inked in cursive are barely legible; nor their intent, whether offered in joy or lament. In the end, what will it matter who wrote them, or why and when? You read these when they were fresh. Remember how hurriedly you folded or hid some in a box; took them out as if to test how words, like blades, could remain unblunted? Yet there's a limit to how much even time can hold without curving or swooning into itself— From a height, look at these rills of earth scalloped more graceful than skin. At swells and troughs, histories meet, return, fall away and away again.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.