On one level it hurts when I am rejected, just as when a poem is rejected. As when a student falls asleep in class in the middle of what should be an important discussion period. As when a manuscript is returned for a notion based on ambiguous logic.
I watch Brendan cuddle close to his Papi— the fabric of their identity sewn tightly, interwoven with a braided thread.
•54/ —or with a fallen flock of Japanese maple leaves, slipping across dark ice, the creek frozen over with a thick existence of early winter—
(he exists here)