Saturday, June 22
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After a Friend's Death
For Orrin

It must be summer. Push the dock out,
Bring the canoe down, find your old
Books - bird books, Hawthorne. Drive
To Gooseberry. Even in the Swedish islands,

Summer comes. They pull the linen off chairs,
Bring out the blue dishes, write some poems.
Say again: "It must be summer."
Even though people die, it must be summer.
 - Robert Bly
Morning Poems









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