It is June in Lexington, 

so there are supposed to be words – 
poems, no less – to share. For ten 
days, the words have hidden. Refused 
to seep from fingertips. The world?  
Whirlwind. Overwhelm. Too much 
to process, to parse, to even begin 
to bite. So this. Begin. With a 
beginning of sorts. A try. A 
probable fail. A start. 
A shrug.