Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Novemberance

Foreshortened day,
unwelcome touch,
and unkind light.

I read the warnings,
count out their syllables. 

Then snow webs 
untidy, un-mappable, 
planting everywhere.

Racing, erasing my flesh, 
being, becoming my body.

_

Intersecting at Stoppard

Tom Stoppard died this week. I've been in awe of his work since I was an undergraduate, maybe even before I actually ever read his work,...