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On a Photograph of My Cousin Jean

As lovely as a girl aged twenty-twocan be—intelligent, slim, self-possessed,and beautiful. It’s Florida; it’s newto her, like marriage. Smiling, smartly dressed, she poses, shaded by a palm, besidea terra cotta jar. The honeymoonhas just begun, the cattleya fresh, the bridestill radiant. . . . . Continue Reading »

Gnostic Longings

Complaints about aging contain an implicit affirmation of the body, rooted in the truth that our bodies are us. When our bodies ail, we ail; when they fail, we fail. We touch the world—lovers and enemies, soccer and sunsets, sonnets and sushi—only through eyes and ears and brains and nerves and hands and tongues. Continue Reading »


Not fit enough to wander the wild woods or separate my wouldn’ts from my shoulds, what can I say? Not spry enough to scamper on a deck or fend a tall sloop from a leeward wreck, I steer my way. No longer lean or lithe enough to climb a groaning glacier out in Mountain Time, here I shall stay. So: . . . . Continue Reading »

Not a Poem

Old people can’t write poetry. Only those who think and live and feel and praise and swear and fight and love and give birth to babies can give birth to poems.  Not old people. No dear old lady living in retirement with a shawl around her shoulders, living among . . . . Continue Reading »

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