Listen to poem:
Two Writers
from "To My Wife":
So love by love we come at last,
As through the exclusions of a rhyme,
Or the exactions of a past,
To the simplicity of time,
The antiquity of grace, where yet
We live in terror and delight
With love as quiet as regret
And love like anger in the night.
----- J. V. Cunningham
We meet infrequently --
sometimes every other week --
because we have in common
a curious thing: we write.
But, more than that, we think.
We feel; we do not judge
for condemnation, but
as a process of selection.
We speak as though
we understand that flash
of insight that can end
our speech in sudden chill
and labored breath --
a sporadic thrill we value
for its rarity when seeing,
or producing, something worthy
but not wordy.
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