Even as a child I wrote but never more than when new to Greenwich Village, alone on the road or a freighter or, finally, during Anson’s long illness mad with love and loss. It was art I could do at a bedside.
But I had never considered myself a poet until, asking A. to print texts from old sketchbooks into his first computer, he encouraged me to submit for publication. I was shocked to be accepted and asked to read.
Enter here to see what came of the inspirations and rough drafts.