Thomas Russell Wingate
When I was twenty-three, what launched me took words.
I’m fond of cryptic messages and use no other kind.¹
Having reached three-score years and ten, I face you in a camera lucida in a library near the Jordan River. Despite infirmities of age, my creative strengths are growing.
In my lapel is a pewter infinity sign. Beside me, on white marble, is a phoenix² made from resin.
1 “Croatan” (1970) in Fallen Sparrows.
2 This is the Mediterranean phoenix, not the Far Eastern phoenix.