If I am repaired, can we meet again for the first time, in all of the places I have feared to go, and then, again, in all of the places I will have forgotten, if I am repaired?




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Here is the desk drawer in which all of my odds and ends are kept, tidbits that would otherwise never see the light of day.











Saturday, January 25, 2020

The Breathing of Wood



It was as if a master stonemason had packed the wood into the shed, each pie-shaped split seated into a near perfectly corresponding V, chinked with tinder wherever the slightest gap remained. The old man doubted he could wedge the blade of his penknife into the neatly ricked seams. 
     “She’s got to breathe a little, son,” he said to the boy of the pile, though in the still of his thinking he felt the well of pride, knowing that it was his own blood’s doing, a generation leaped, that had given the boy this keen eye. “Be ten years drying, racked up that pretty.” 







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