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July 2016, vol 12 no 2

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Michael S. Ryan


We used to write letters, the kind with handwritten addresses and licked stamps. The curving view of pen to paper, the inked mistakes corrected and permanent, the way we wrote love as a salutation or an ending. Its arrival and rhythmic unfolding put time in its place. Tangible re-readings of distance, the stories unfold. In our hands, we wrote the glitched-perhaps to the kindness of time, but checked the mailbox anyway. We still check the box each day, same letters, same font.

sharing a mirror
with a stranger