Dispatch #59
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Post-it The poet has two jobs: write and survive. Between the two some kind of life occurs, close to the ground, in poverty. And there are seasons. Even as a snow squall pixelates the alley outside my window in the middle of May. Poetry is time chiseled into a shape that makes a sound.
Poetry is time chiseled into a shape that makes a sound.
There is nothing more to add or detract from the perfection of this statement.
I stand and say Bravo for more than one curtain call.