weekend-readsB

  In the beginning was the letter B. Through B, God made the world. Today that sign gleams on a keyboard neither for cadenzas nor waterfall arpeggios, but for prayers tapped out on keys that flicker like strung beads, and brush like seashells, pearly, paper-thin, tide washes in. I dwell on weightier strokes by surer hands with trowels that dug out sound, B at the base. For the B that blooms now, curved like a bellflower in high wind, a Phoenician sailed the letter Beth to the Greeks for Beta, centuries ago. B is for B.C.E., for Nestor’s cup, for the stone scratches on a burial urn, and for Babel’s blankness when our languages were undone; B is for bare

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Longitudinal Study

By JP Grasser

  In the beginning was the letter B. Through B, God made the world. Today that sign gleams on a keyboard neither for cadenzas nor waterfall arpeggios, but for prayers […]

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