On the train home, a Bluetooth in his ear, he listens to a lecture on fear and love, the four kinds, lower and higher.
[…]
Hope springs eternal, especially for aspiring poets. They want their voices to be heard; they want to appear in print as well as to write their poems. One wonders: who will listen, who will read?
They are here, in the eaves, the clothesline pole,hayloft—everywhere she looks—and everywhereshe goes they are there before her, in town
The sudden quiet of a room emptied of noise. Only the Hebrew, a stone on his tongue.
A newly discovered letter by Walt Whitman
