Robert Bly, Leaping Poet, has died. Writes J. Hirshfield: his “works carry lanterns of bioluminescent perception & hold music alchemical and chthonic, the heart's broken-open suffering and radiance.“
--It is a cold and snowy night. The main street is deserted.
The only things moving are swirls of snow.
As I lift the mailbox door, I feel its cold iron.
There is a privacy I love in this snowy night.
Driving around, I will waste more time. RB
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