I remember now, as I continue to read your work from before,
the ones that you have reposted in the
more hospitable place,
what it always was about your work before,
when I read a piece for the first time, for me:

I tended to read them slowly,
savoring them, like a really good brandy or an aged port,
and let them roll around in my head for a while;
and when I came to the end of any given one,
I would often go back and read again,
anxious that the moments spent with your words not stop,
that they would just go on and on and on;

that feeling came back full force tonight,
as I was reading; while I am not fully gripping it,
it is gripping me, and I am not at all sure of what that means,
but I mean to find out.

February 7, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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