At the Paper Mill: Chance Meeting or…?
At last — let’s count
how many boreal stumps could fit
on the head of a linchpin, your hungry
pocketa pockets buzzing with
bewildering sooty pulp.
I’m shaking your hand,
an isolated touch
that works miracles in a crowded
room. Sometimes it’s luck,
at other times, hope. Your mind,
as I read it in your eyes,
remains the same defensive gun, quick
with printworthy asides, another
loggerhead view, dusted like gold,
eager to roll
and howl in the hunt.
For process notes, see “Vanishing Biography.”