Friday, May 5, 2017


I love secrets. Not too many at once, and not a self-destructive one, but a good secret or two is power. Poets (and here I may be projecting) seem to me a reticent bunch; we hold our secrets close and allude to them in poem after poem.

More than a year of working on poems related to Emily Dickinson has filled my head with imagined secrets, as well. And again, poems are filled with such imaginings...

pieces of wings and who did the piecing