If art is nothing more than the chance meeting on a dissecting table of a sewing machine and an umbrella, then poetry, at its best, is pure communication between two people, no matter how briefly. This is a chronicle of one such month-long conversation and its aftershocks.
If art is nothing more than the chance meeting on a dissecting table of a sewing machine and an umbrella, then poetry, at its best, is pure communication between two people, no matter how briefly. This is a chronicle of one such month-long conversation and its aftershocks.