“ I write for pages,get lost in the mezzaninehidden from stages. ”
He utilizesform for a striking lecture;young poets shiverinexperience,but thaw over their own work,fertilize magic.
~ Kristen Henderson
Who is so fancy, esoterica saves the day?Who is the Yogi, Namaste?
Once, I took the penny whistle you gave me and discovered a spotby the roaring falls where I could play as loud as I wanted. I lay in the bifurcated trunkof a low-slung birch tree. The sun peeked through applauding leaves, high overhead.
And no matter what closet we were thrown in, up what river we were sold for an embarrassment, or worse, traded for a bottle of gin--we’d carry on in playful stitches, friends‘til the end…which came sooner than wished.
