Just finished "The Best of It," Kay Ryan's poetry collection. Here's one of my favorites. I'm thinking about the nutrients of my recent failure to guide Henry. Many bad choices of friends, of opening himself to getting the virus, then being reckless in informing others (including me). My attempts to make him (right word choice?) take some action, to straighten his course, to take responsibility at least, have been failures. Sixteen months I have been reaching out.
It's dark, bitter. What will this dead fish help grow?
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