Defined by places
where I served the written word—-
Berkeley, Boston, Pro-
vidence—I became
deaf. Now, no longer paid by
the word, I listen
to the low, spaced-out
notes of mourning doves, the squeals
of gulls over wide
waters. The word flows
through me into nothingness.
I too am passage.
Like this:
Like Loading...
Related
Author: Tom D'Evelyn
Tom D'Evelyn is a private editor and writing tutor in Cranston RI and, thanks to the web, across the US and in the UK. He can be reached at tom.develyn@comcast.net. D'Evelyn has a PhD in Comparative Literature from UC Berkeley. Before retiring he held positions at The Christian Science Monitor, Harvard University Press, Boston University and Brown University. He ran a literary agency for ten years, publishing books by Leonard Nathan and Arthur Quinn, among others. Before moving to Portland OR he was managing editor at Single Island Press, Portsmouth NH. He blogs at http://tdevelyn.com and other sites.
View all posts by Tom D'Evelyn
Metaxyturn Diaries 