At the Sound of the Beep

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by Trudi Taylor He read Mark Strand poems into my answering machine. Masculine firmness mouthing each word. Susurrus of certain phrases. Over the next weeks, he quoted Laughlin, Brautigan, to return to Strand. I stopped. Listened. His daily messages were like worms fed to a starving baby bird. Beak to beak. I fell in love. …

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