From the archives

A poet who used be a swimmer
and a chess player showed me her sonnets.
It didn’t take long for me to try one.
Fourteen lines and it was love at first sight.
She swam on a precision team. She played
chess with homeless men in Dupont Circle.
In her day job she analyzed and crunched
complex numbers at a government bank.
We sent letters with sonnets we’d compose
back and forth for several years before
the spell broke. We went our separate ways,
our poetry paradise forsaken.
Could it have ended any other way?
What is an end? Sonnets still fill the space.

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