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On Nothing to Write Home About


by Sam Rasnake


         ... the other circle we make up ourselves — John Donne, Sermon XXV

 

Reading Donne's sermons just now, I think of you in your silence, four screws and a marble slab away from speaking, your hands a marvel of gesture to me — even now — always typing, always scribbling.  A story with fence and creek by a small stand of maples, the heavy sun dropping past green threads of October ridge — time emptied of everything but voices from a long porch, softer, softer, then softer still.

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