Our stories actually mourn?

How might we have our stories, our poems, actually mourn? Or dance? Maybe ask Meredith Willson or Edgar Allan Poe. An actually mourning poem would without words keen in the throat that hears. Keening exceeds the one, enters the realm of the between. The between is the place of traverse, of converse.

:- Doug.

Published in: Conversations | on October 19th, 2020 | No Comments »

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