i do not think that one could have painted a better portrait on canvas, than you have done with words. this is such an expert image, such a perfectly said and perfectly worded and perfecly lined and timed and dimed poem that, paper withers in comparison. i love it

lorraine

impassible, bound for self enigmation,

your poetry lives distinctly alone and alive, even afterwards, like some sort of creation in a basement.

great use of warm...summer...autumn.

a fleeting, but welcome, end of a southern summer.