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extract from Words Grow Quietly
II Words have a habit of growing quietly, and in the most unexpected places, into poems. Syllables silently link hands, phrases cling like lovers, feeling right, and despite all well-intentioned reasoning, refuse to part. 22/7//88 – reality...Midnight; black-tie;b.y.o.
In theory, I can only write like me, but reality is less defined. I do my best not to steal from others, but some influence is obviously inevitable. If it could be wished into being, like a genie, I’d have a style that would shout...