Letters
Posted by Shaun McCormick
You send me typed letters
every Friday to my home in Georgia,
and I stuff them tight into my armoire.
I feel the soft feet of serif as I read them,
my eyes walking from line
to line; old stories of our trips to Oxford,
the hard press of stone cuts
spelling Latin on the walls.
Dulce amatoribus condere est, you pen,
and push …
