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Celebrate with Me! I’m a Poetry Reader for Muzzle Magazine!

Happy Tuesday, friends! I hope you’re having a wonderful start to your week, because I know I am!

Fall is almost here, I’ve been writing daily, and I just received wonderful news: I’m one of four new Poetry Readers for Muzzle Magazine!

I’m so excited. Muzzle‘s first issue premiered during the same month and year (July 2010) when I started working in my first editing role—Managing Editor for 42 Miles Press.

Nine years later, our paths have crossed, and I couldn’t be happier to read submissions for them.

Time to dive into that slush pile:



A Night of Building a Manuscript & Reading Poetry

Happy Tuesday night, all! I hope you had a wonderful weekend—and a relaxing Labor Day.

My Labor Day weekend revolved (mostly) around lovely “guilty pleasures,” ranging from binge-watching Season 3 of The Good Place, starting my latest re-read of Stephen King’s IT in preparation for IT: Part Two hitting theaters on September 6th, spending time with my family, and (perhaps of course) building out my poetry manuscript.

I could talk to you, probably for hours, about my love, theories, aches, and pains surrounding The Good Place, and I can always take time to talk about my favorite Stephen King reads, and show off pictures of my kids—but tonight’s all about that darn poetry collection that’s been hiding on the pull-out shelf of my desk all summer.

My poetry manuscript, tentatively titled DAUGHTER WILD, alongside a beautiful, lounging, and aloof Teddy. Cat Not Included in Eventual Publication. ha!

An old mentor of mine told me that the process of a “true writer” was slow—so I’m choosing to see it as a positive that I’ve been sitting with this manuscript for so long.

This manuscript originally dated back to 2010 with some of my earlier poems—until this summer, that is, when I finally removed them. I’ve watched this collection morph for years, through my MFA years when I thought I might actually have a publishable manuscript, through the next couple years while sending it out and tweaking it, to finally this summer, when I looked at it in a new way.

I never stopped writing, or thinking about writing, in the time since my MFA was completed and I began sending the collection out. However, I was doing all the thinking, rather than actively listening to my writing.

You see, in a way, each piece you write—every story, every poem—carries its own personality, its own goal, its own essence. The answer to how that piece’s personality will gel with another varies from compared piece to compared piece. You have to listen to how those poems are talking to each other, to decide if they’re going to be able to live inside the same collection or not.

It took writing a certain poem, between 2018 and now, to realize that I was forcing poems together into the same collection, rather than listening to how they were talking to each other.

When I wrote what I currently expect will be the title poem, “Daughter Wild,” I realized the mistake I was making. I realized the direction I currently wanted to write in, and how avidly I wanted to write about certain topics. Once I realized what the theme was that I was chasing, I was able to look back at the poems I had currently gathered together, and remove the ones that weren’t contributing to that conversation.

This summer, I removed half of the poems from the collection—literally half.

For some of my readers out there, I’m sure this will sound devastating. It will sound like a lot of lost work. I know for me, even two years ago, this would have sounded like too drastic of a move. I used to believe that, if the poem was fine-tuned enough, strong enough on its own, then it was ready to be published in a collection. Now, I realize that’s technically not true.

The poem may be strong enough for a collection somewhere down the line, but you can’t force a poem into just any collection. It has to speak to the collection you’re creating. It’s like a giant, sophisticated puzzle, and each poem has to perform as a fitting piece.

Perhaps those poems I cut will find their place in a future collection or chapbook; I’m certainly not closing that door. But right now, I’m content in the work I’ve done, and find myself peacefully writing in the direction of finishing this collection.

Hopefully, its theme will speak to an editor this year, as well. That’s the dream, at least.

Have a good night, all.


An Inspiring Day in Kalamazoo: Poems

Happy Sunday, friends! I hope you each had a wonderful weekend and are looking forward to Monday.

Believe it or not, I actually am excited about Monday, because I’ll be spending time with my kiddos and (gasp!) writing.

This weekend was of the whirlwind variety, taking me through Chicago, down to Indiana, up into Michigan, and back again. I’m home now, comfortable in my own space after so much catching up, via inspiring, intellectual, and fun conversations with family, former colleagues, and writers alike.

I was invited to a New Issues event today, entitled, “Celebrating New Issues: Honoring Bill Olsen’s 10 Years of Editorship.” When I found out Bill was retiring this year from teaching and editing (at least in a formal capacity), I knew I had to find a way to make it to Michigan. Fortunately, we were able to make it work by making a weekend out of it, spending time with family and then heading to Michigan for the reading.

It was wonderful to reconnect with so many writers from around Kalamazoo and Grand Rapids, and also to see those integral to New Issues Poetry and Prose, and the English / Creative Writing Department at Western.

Though I’ll inevitably be writing tonight and tomorrow, I wanted to share for now two poems, not written by me, that were read at the New Issues celebration, as well as two poems from New Issues’ latest publications… I’ll be sharing more of Bill’s work later in the week, once I’ve had a chance to properly revisit his work; I hope you’ll stay tuned for that, because his work is amazing.

First, poems by New Issues’ latest: “Distillation Poem” from Eman Hassan’s Raghead and “Mistress of the House” from Chet’la Sebree’s Mistress.

Kuwait, Active-Present

Everything is different and yet the same.

The same moon arcs across skies less
and less blue, while vanity mirrors

still reflect an ever-constant me me me, still
deflect backgrounds of sponsored Asians in bondage.

Fingers of moonlight grow long across dressing tables,
wrap eyes in gossamer bandages…

… if you’re looking for a sonnet, this isn’t it.

Come, take your pill and remember
those petrified lessons of war’s carnage, come

smell the putrid outpouring of sewage, still let
into the sea, in the dim-lit dead of night,

raw as the dead who now see
standing behind each shoulder like worried angels

longing for fingers to touch, to unfasten the knots
at the backs of our skulls…


I want to learn to sit cross-ankled
and set an Emily Post table,

want to invite my colleagues to dinner
and play hostess supreme—

serving beef bourguignon and baked Alaska,
all gluten-free—to retire

to a bed bearing a partner
in satisfied exhaustion.

I want a deep-lunged beast
to stir me from my sleep,

want to be good at something
other than this writing exhibitionism,

even though I lost the first baby I loved
and prefer eating pork rinds alone.


Next, a poem by Bill, from his latest collection, TechnoRage:


The woods running out of breath
were paradise, you and I
rocking in sex like kids on swings,
trying out open tunings
or whatever we wished that seemed pure
and apart from our parents
and all humankind, and now
the ice caps are on the verge
of a nervous breakdown,
it’s time our generation said
goodbye. That bowling ball
in my hands was my head,
before even midnight died
there was lots of wind to listen lost to
but when it lightninged
one beautiful sight was you.

And the world was just like
a reality and mostly ours to
kite alongside our loved ones
hurled like birds by the wind
beak first into the mortuary.
We stopped crying at the sad parts
to cry at the joyous parts,
then turn to one another.


Finally, a poem by Robert Hass, from his collection, The Apple Trees at Olema, to wrap things up.


Late afternoon in June the fog rides in
across the ridge of pines, ghosting them,
and settling on the bay to give a muted gray
luster to the last hours of light and take back
what we didn’t know at midday we’d experience
as lack: the blue summer and the dry spiced scent
of the summer woods. It’s as if some cold salt god
had wandered inland for a nap. You still see
herons fishing in the shallows, a kingfisher or an osprey
emerges for a moment out of the high, drifting mist,
then vanishes again. And the soft, light green leaves
of the thimbleberry and the ridged coffeeberry leaves
and the needles of the redwoods and pines look more sprightly
in the cool gray air with the long dusk coming on,
since fog is their natural element. I had it in mind
that this description of the weather would be a way
to say things come and go, a way of subsuming
the rhythms of arrival and departure to a sense
of how brief the time is on a summer afternoon
when the sun is warm on your neck and the world
might as well be a dog sleeping on a porch, or a child
for whom an afternoon is endless, endless. Time:
thick honey, and no one saying good-bye.


Have a wonderful evening, all.


In Honor of Marni Ludwig: Five Poems

It came to my attention last night via social media that Marni Ludwig, poet of New Issues Poetry & Prose and Poetry Society of America, has passed away. She leaves behind her chapbook, Little Box of Cotton and Lightning, her full-length collection, Pinwheel, and countless friends, family members, and fans.

At my most recent AWP (Association of Writers and Writing Programs’ Conference), I attended a panel less so because of its topic and more so because Marni was scheduled to be a part of that panel. It was announced at the opening of the panel that, falling ill, she had been unable to commute to Seattle and attend the conference. That was my one opportunity, that I know of, to have met her and complimented her work in-person, but I feel grateful to have known and admired her work in the years since I was introduced to Pinwheel at New Issues Poetry & Prose.

In an effort to commemorate—I’ve found the best way to remember and celebrate a poet we’ve lost is to turn back to their poems, and think about how the poet’s work has touched our lives. For me, Marni Ludwig has been with me through these poems from Pinwheel and all of Little Box of Cotton and Lightning; she’s been with me through my re-connection to direct, if surreal, declarative sentences in poetry; through my rediscovery of oil pastels and marbling (because of that fantastic book cover); through my connection to the ideas of depression and suicide that are at least hinted, if not animated, in these poems.

So, first, a poem I wrote back in 2014 that I’ve never done anything with—but it feels particularly poignant (at least for me) today:


a body falls. So senseless

is the heart when it comes

undone. You pull over

in the downpour, look up

at the building in a sky

that seems to go on forever,

and you think you see it: a small

exit hole from which he fell—

a brick misplaced, a departed

cloud. Whatever caused it was lost

in that pirouette of skin

to pavement. Stuck there,

the engine failing, the tires

flat, your mind blank,

you crumble like salt. He

was your friend, or he

could have been, had you

known him. What could

the driver’s license and

the countless credit cards

in his wallet really tell you?

How about the flowers

at his funeral, the way

rain will fall on his grave bed?

You mumble on forever

and ever—dirt sleep—

you wander around


And, four poems by Marni Ludwig from her collection, Pinwheel—four show-stoppers. Though there are so many to choose from in both of her books.


After the girl
with the handful of mice
and a tiny silver guillotine leaves,
we lie down in the dark.

You tell me last night
you dreamed you wore
a beard. The night before
you drowned but did not sleep.

On the screen behind us
citizens of a great island
build the streets
toward a difficult sky.

On the next screen
a blind girl steps
before a shining faucet
and lets her dress fall.


Listen, I am returning to where you are.

Wisteria, wisteria,
asleep on the stalk,
show me how to keep
the mouth soft.

Inside, wasps

are building cornices in the dust
and not one accurate place
in the silence.


Face down in the sun you can say you followed an animal
into the sun. We were having a conversation
about her pain. Lamb and Pin, first in line,
and then the other ponies trailing behind, mending
their shadows by the little coughing light of dusk.

And the birds dropped in our laps.

How could the sky have forsaken us after we made it
small, to match our faith, and rode it
so purposefully into the breezeway.

From the east, you shall hear the call of seventy pentecostal hoof-taps.
From the west, the haystack whispers, slow learner.

Once I lost the use of my arms.

It was the only time I felt a kindness toward myself.

As for despair, I’ve learned to sit with it,
to arch my back and sink
the weight into my heels.

Every night I oil the saddle.
Every night I spit onto the torn bed-sheet,
rubbing concentrically until I find you
lying in the grass, drinking at the mouth
of the river of an inner ear.


I dreamed I swam in a public park
while leather-beaked ducks
ate black bread at the edge
of the cool water. I was afraid
to feed them. I was afraid of the sun,
which showed me the original image
of myself, floating on my back.

A dog barked and then another dog
raised its head. I feel I deserve to die
if I have made a mistake. Underneath
the lake: bird music, cold sky
swimming up to meet my hands.


Ludwig, MarniPinwheel. Kalamazoo: New Issues Press, 2013. Print.


If you’re interested in purchasing Pinwheel, please visit New Issues Press.


“My Face Resembles / The One Reflected in the Water”: Reading David Dodd Lee’s And Others, Vaguer Presences

The thing that I love about erasure poetry is how interactive it can (and should!) be with the original work it is pulling from. I think, for some writers who attempt this form, the goal is to reinvent the words that are on the page, than to accept them and attempt to draw something new out of the woodwork. But I find this to be problematic: if the writer chooses to engage with another writer’s work, and distance their resulting works from it, what are they truly accomplishing? How have they challenged themselves? What are they implying about the original work?

On the flip-side, when the writer takes what the other writer has done, celebrates it, and points out some of the facets we may have missed in the previous work, by performing this erasure, then I believe those writers are onto something. And I believe this is where David Dodd Lee comes in, with the two collections of erasure poetry he has compiled of John Ashbery’s extensive work. Just as Ashbery himself notes in the blurb for this second collection, that the poems “were actually written by the poems themselves, which had definite ideas about what they wanted and didn’t want” (2017). This suggests to me that David Dodd Lee not only remained true to what he believed John Ashbery had originated on the page, but he created new poems that were reflective of what he believed the original poems wanted to be.

Whatever John Ashbery’s original intentions with his work—that question could easily take up a series of blog posts in and of itself!—the poems that Lee generates in their place are energetic, intense, and surprising. True to the persona of a Lee poem, they are nature-centric, imagistic, and politically-focused. Much like John Ashbery’s poems, these new erasures examine relationships, specific memories and images, and where we fall within nature ecopoetically, as well as where we live within the political landscape.

To explore these ideas in more detail, I have selected one of my favorite poems from the collection, titled “Summer,” and based on John Ashbery’s poem, “The Double Dream of Spring.”


There is that sound
                                like forgetting
time hardly seen
                             the twigs of a tree
                             the trees of a life
We,     among all others

                                  And suddenly,
                to be dying
                                    a little mindless construction
of pine needles
                            and winter
                of cold stars
                            and summer

I step to a narrow ledge.
                                My face resembles
             the one reflected in the water.

Isn’t this lovely? This is truly one of my favorite poems from the collection, for its imagery, use of white space, and what it reflects in, both, Lee’s and Ashbery’s work (again, my favorite form of erasure—when it can reflect both of the writers involved). I admire the work that goes into erasing poetry, and I’m definitely of the mind that the work should still embody that work from which it has borrowed, and I think that’s achieved here rather wonderfully. First, the opening phrase, contained in the first three lines of this poem, are highly reminiscent to me of my all-time-favorite Ashbery poem, “At North Farm,” which opens with, “Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you.” This line has stayed with me for years, from the first time I ever gave that poem a read. There’s something about the combined certainty of both of these phrases, in Ashbery and Lee’s work, as well as almost the removal of agency from the persona at hand: we can’t help that someone is approaching, much like we can’t help the process of forgetting. Both of these things seem inevitable, and hardly memorable or noteworthy most of the time, but there is both trouble and comfort to be found in that inevitability.

Second, I’m very interested in how this poem works visually, and what both white space and short lines bring to John Ashbery’s work. Admittedly, I’ve always read his work very slowly, and I read more pauses into his lines than is technically warranted by how the poems are laid out on the page. However, I think there’s something that can be said for that—their density and complexity, their need for breath. While it could be argued that Ashbery’s poems could be laid out differently to better encapsulate their imagery and movement, which I think is on the list of what Lee has achieved here in his retelling, I think it’s important, too, to recognize that density is as welcome in a compart form as in the sparse ranges that so many of us now seek out in our most contemporary reading cycles. I think on some level this is addressed through Lee’s embodiment of these poems, in his repurposing of the longer lines into something more minimal, but still rich with imagery, question, and complexity.

Finally, from a thematic angle, both of these writers spend admirable amounts of time exploring and celebrating nature, and our place within it, while also addressing many of our vulnerabilities, both ecopoetically and politically. In this poem that I’ve shared above alone, there are questions about our dealings with memory, as well as our approach to death, and our recognition of ourselves at various stages in our lives. These are topics with heavy, underlying questions that both of these poets have tackled beautifully and even ruthlessly in their own work—so it only seems fitting that such questions would appear in the crossover of erasure. They are themes that can be troubling, yes, but are important and should be addressed nonetheless—and I believe how they are arrived at in these erasure poems is both organic and surprising, leaving us with twinges of their intensity and rereading for more.

Whether or not you’re new to the process of erasure poetry, or John Ashbery’s work, or David Dodd Lee’s work, I think this collection can be a wonderful starting place for the reader interested in investing in one or all. These poems are highly indicative of both writers’ breadth and quality, as well as the extensive process that goes into well-written erasures. If you aren’t so new to the process or these poets, you’ll bring with you hindsight that highlights some of the more secret elements of these poems, and what they illuminate about each poet. Basically, if you haven’t read this collection yet, there is a reason for you to do so—and then you’ll more than likely find, like me, that you immediately want to read it again, more slowly this time, because the ideas and images always seem to keep going, rather furiously, and the last thing you want to do is miss a breath.

DAVID DODD LEE is a visual artist and author of ten books of poems, in reverse chronological order: And Others, Vaguer Presences, a Second Book of Ashbery Erasure Poems (BlazeVox, 2016), Animalities (Four Way Books, 2014); The Coldest Winter on Earth (Marick Press, 2012); Orphan, Indiana (Akron, 2010); The Nervous Filaments (Four Way Books, 2010); Sky Booths in the Breath Somewhere, the Ashbery Erasure Poems (BlazeVox, 2010); Abrupt Rural (New Issues, 2004); Arrow Pointing North (Four Way Books, 2002); Wilderness (chapbook) (March Street Press, 2000); Downsides of Fish Culture (New Issues, 1997). As Editor, he completed: The Other Life: the Selected Poems of Herbert Scott (Carnegie Mellon, 2010); Shade 2004 & 2006 (fiction and poetry anthologies) (Four Way Books). As publisher, he managed: Half Moon Bay, a chapbook press, with titles by Hugh Seidman and Franz Wright. He is presently Editor-in-Chief of 42 Miles Press.

Lee, David Dodd. And Others, Vaguer Presences: A Book of Ashbery Erasure Poems. Buffalo NY, BlazeVOX Books, 2017. To read, find it here and here.


Reading David Dodd Lee

Happy Sunday, all!

As fellow readers, book lovers, and writers, I know you have authors and books in your back pocket that you find yourself returning to from time to time. Maybe it’s an annual thing, maybe it’s when you’re having a rough time, or are in a creative slump. For me, one of those writers is David Dodd Lee… I’m finally getting around to really digging deep into his second collection of John Ashbery erasure poems, And Others, Vaguer Presences: A Book of Ashbery Erasure Poems, and reviewing it. I’ve read the collection before, right after its release, but not with the space and attention I wanted—so really, this review, going up tonight, is a long time coming.

In the meantime, here are a few poems I particularly love and praise from the collection:


I      shout

The rain

   to know

             It has
not come
             to take
   to God
             God is
at your house,
             wind swept
             a mind-crystal


You keep asking me that
              Trust me     I think

              that nice

   Pulled from space
            after they examined

          no one

          it was all
                    a longing in the loins

   I was going
                  to remind you of the story
         of the     overfed

   One got off
         The other was     dazed
            By the time

it was summer again
         somebody’s boy came up
   wandered over
                 their reputations


To true roses uplifted on the bilious tide of evening

          And morning glory


    I am

             light forever

    Or back into

            the grave


To be old
isn’t a bad idea    One is
    the sky,

      I know it’s none of my business, but

      dreams are
      good, a planet
      tiled with
      feathery to the touch

      as though autumn had fallen off
an animal,
             one as distinctive
      as some grand occasion
                          or event
      no one recognizes anymore


There is that sound
                like forgetting
time hardly seen
               the twigs of a tree
               the trees of a life
We,     among all others

                    And suddenly,
             to be dying
               a little mindless construction
of pine needles
              and winter
             of cold stars
              and summer

I step to a narrow ledge.
                My face resembles
             the one reflected in the water.

All poems appear in David Dodd Lee’s latest John Ashbery erasure poetry collection: And Others, Vaguer Presences: A Book of Ashbery Erasure Poems. Buffalo NY, BlazeVOX Books, 2017. It comes highly recommended, and is available here and here.

Image Credit: You can see the original, raw artwork over here!


Today: Three Tiny Poems


You remind me
of a father figure—not

my real father
who I leave absent

from my poems. Maybe for him, there are
too few words, or maybe

I prefer him like a ghost:
imprinted on walls. More words

I can leave scattered
on his grave.


To the sister who has never
forgiven me, I often think of you

on a swing, as the young girl you were
before I was born. Every year

your birthday passes, and I place flowers
on a rock where I imagine you might one day

spread your ashes. To the young girls
we both used to be, these magnolias

in the snow: What a dark, inflamed heart you wear.


A heart full of sadness and blood
is really just any other heart. So common,

you might find one
at your local supermarket.

Aisle sixteen
next to the empty canisters.

On your way, pickup in Aisle two.
Outside, a broken

shopping cart gate
and a pile of runaway carts

now stacked against the nearest
Toyota. Outside, an old woman dropping

a brown paper bag
with something glass


Outside, the birds humming
with oncoming fall.


“Where It’s Gone” & The Prompt Behind It

Hi everyone! Happy Tuesday! I’m doing things a little differently starting this week, sharing a poem and the writing prompt behind it (I’m back to writing poems each day, some written free-style, and some by prompt).

I know I’m a little late to the party today, but I still wanted to check in. Here is my poem, and its prompt. Thanks for being here, and thanks for reading! I hope you will share your work in the comments!


My room disappears one item
at a time: becoming less like the place I go

to rest my weary body, and more
like a place where strangers crawl, searching

the corners for stray marks. I’ve already
mourned this city once and didn’t plan

to do it again. The windows, the trees,
were mine. But now as the suitcase fills

and I see the items creeping up the sides,
I see bare walls, bare windows, until

the trees outside seem to bare themselves, too,
whiting themselves out.

Prompt: “Will Wonders Never Cease?”, from The Time Is Now via National Geographic, found here.


“All My Things Are Empty Now” & The Prompt That Wrote It

Hello, everyone! I hope you had a nice weekend and are enjoying your Monday. Starting this week, I’m going to do something a little different. I’m back to writing every day, with a mixture of free-writing and prompt-driven writing.

I’m going to share a poem each day that is driven by a prompt, followed by the prompt that “wrote” the poem. I’d love it if you’d tackle the prompt, as well, to see what you come up with, or to share another prompt that you enjoy.

Here’s my poem and prompt for today. Thanks for being here, and thanks for reading.


the kitchen and its table
                dark corners and wax        the bathroom        cabinets
extra items            stored     up     and     away
                wide     open     rooms                   quieter now
the walls and their hangings            my daughter            ’s friends
                cats gone missing               somewhere deep
the dust                the shelves
                the curtain            what white is left hanging
off of it                scarves thrown
over the back        of a chair
                (my suitcase        is full)     what moon
is left in the sky            what stars        what dreams
what        what

Today’s prompt: “Elegant Things,” drawn from Ivan Morris’s The Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon, prompt found here. I hope you’ll share your work in the comments!


What Growing Up Tastes Like

                —A poem today after a long hiatus

                —Happy International Day of the Girl


I sit with my windows open, drink of the air
as if it were the gumdrop from childhood

that never melted, that never tasted
quite like the color coating implied:

daffodil yellow, all-of-your-dreams-come-true-
blue, make-a-wish-like-it-matters-white

cotton. Now, I chew on gum only until
the flavor is out, long before it can turn

gray skeleton, harlequin moon, empty lake
by an extinguished fire.



My Reading with Write Night! Next Up: Dinosaurs.


Last night, I had the extremely great opportunity to perform as one of the five Selected Readers for Lit Literary Collective’s Write Night in May, organized by Krista Cox and Ultreia, Inc.

Thank you, to Krista and Lit Literary and everyone, for having me. I haven’t read in over a year, and I needed it; the company was great; and my fellow readers were excellent.

Here are a few photos from my little sliver of the night, taken by my wonderful friend, Jenn Adams. Thank you, Jenn, for being there, and for taking these and a video.

And thank you to my friends, Jonathan Adams and Joe Eggleston, for also being there and supporting me. You all make me laugh, and you make me feel more deeply, which is what this whole big artistic world is all about.

Next up in my little world of reading: dinosaur poems in Chicago. Stay tuned!!





Reading at LangLab Tonight! & Poem Featured as Creative Writing Prompt


Hi everyone! I hope you’re all enjoying your week. Two pieces of fun news for this afternoon—

I’ll be reading tonight among friends at LangLab in South Bend at 7pm as a part of Lit Literary Collective‘s WRITE NIGHT with Ultreia, Inc. You can find more about it here; I hope you’ll join us!

And I also found out yesterday that my poem, “Timetable,” previously published by the beautiful Rogue Agent (and featured partially above), was used as a creative writing prompt online! I am so pleased and flattered. You can check it out, and the other writing prompts, over here.

Have a wonderful night, all! If I don’t see you, I hope you enjoy the sunshine and get some writing done. If I do see you, I hope you enjoy the poetry!

Until Later, Best ~ from me