Saturday, February 10
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Excess of Air
And so ask: winter? this winter? not with writing pressing in. A variety of large and empty, but perhaps only a tone. It needn't bring tears to your eyes. Whereas winter means. The edge of the wood already distances itself. Lightness born of fatigue. Regardless of kisses, snow weighing down. The branches. Not feeling.
 - Rosmarie Waldrop









  • ". . . as I have said often enough, I write for myself in multiplicate,
    a not unfamiliar phenomenon on the horizon of shimmering deserts."
    - Vladimir Nabokov