I couldn’t read one of those poems without remembering our
conversations or a piece we’d worked on or a walk or a meal or a bottle of
wine. Sometimes the details were too real, and I’d think there was poetry in
everything Jim touched. In a last e-mail, he wrote he had learned you can
walk between the valves of a blue whale’s seven ton heart. Nobody like him.
Read his poetry. Read everything.
05 April 2016
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