The rumbling roll of the press, the saturating
smell of ink. Floors vibrated, hung pictures
quaked. It felt like being aboard a great
machine taking flight, or barreling down
a track to adventures unknown. And in my
child’s view you were a captain of this
wondrous craft—you of the gray steel desk
in a room once removed from the chaos.
Your panoply: scissors, rulers, rubber cement.
You transferred your love of the place—
this thrumming world of the word—into
me more thoroughly than by transfusion.
Ink blood, skin print, circulation circulation.
Your gift of a trajectory still ascending.

Blue cannon of the light, the lovely smell
of crafting stitch. Floors vibrated,
hung yourselves cleaned. It felt

like coming aboard a great machine, seeing
Mind or barreling down bottles to adventures
other. And in Your feet — You of the high

steel desk in a room once had from glass.
Sports: Alluvial feet, amazement: the grill
than the lunch rush spills in. Skunk was the

windows of the place — This strong world
of Clouds — Into kudzu more honestly than by
Things. Ink blood, the huffing wind, circulation,

circulation. Your gift of fire still ascending.

Ted Morrissey

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