When I first approached writing my own memoir, collaboration was not what I had in mind. Years later, in the early spring, I wrote again.
"Come on and we can talk."
I went, and we talked, passing a warm morning in the sun-flooded room.
Conversation was loose, rambling, and frequently interrupted.
There were questions.
The interruptions were unpleasant.
They left me time to reflect.
A
Blackout Poetry
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