There’s a sorrow that’s so old and silver it’s no longer
sorry. There’s a place
between desire and memory, some back porch
we can neither wish for nor recall.
Don McKay, from “Song for the Song of the Wood Thrush,” Angular Unconformity: Collected Poems 1970-2014 (Icehouse Poetry, 2014)
what a lovely thing it is to be able to write
oh how i wish i could write
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