It came to me one morning in a cabin overlooking a bridge on the Nantahala. I spent a half hour, before an autumn gray and rain swept over the hills, watching blue sedans and 18-wheelers cross the river and follow the asphalt into the forests nailed with pine and sweetgum. We all lead lives of destination, and nothing more. Consider the following poems merely a matrix from point A to point B, and wherever else life tends to take you.
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Poetry