Sharon Moskowitz

Critique with apologies to LL DeMerle I like your clomping boots. They make me laugh, remembering some lousy shoes I've had, like sr. school's, which made me fall down stairs, an entire flight of stairs. Actually, it wasn't shoes but drunkenness. Most cer- tainly my drunkenness. Indian Summer flash red as if you think turning signals might be less am big you us. Prosodics

Was there a time when curves and lines and dots and dashes did not resolve themselves to silent sound? Like the faces that consider you from woodgrain, or stare in sudden surprise, embedded in electrical plates. There are symbols, once learned, that are molded to your memory. There is no way of disconnecting meaning. Nonsense chants its rhythm. There is no denying words when words are there.