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Thanks to a residency at EcoHealth, my verse these days finds inspiration in the specter of future pandemics; for my dissertation at LMU München, where I tutor and edit circulars on poetics and composition, I'm anatomizing the prosody of Robinson's sonnets—I also teach at MVHS and lead the Amerikahaus Literary Circle.

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by William Shaespeare

Thus can my loue excuſe the ſlow offence,
Of my dull bearer,when from thee I ſpeed,
From where thou art,why ſhoulld I haſt me thence,
Till I returne of poſting is noe need.
O what excuſe will my poore beaſt then find,
When ſwift extremity can ſeeme but ſlow,
Then ſhould I ſpurre though mounted on the wind,
In winged ſpeed no motion ſhall I know,
Then can no horſe with my deſire keepe pace,
Therefore deſire(of perfects loue being made)
Shall naigh noe dull fleſh in his fiery race,
But loue,for loue,thus ſhall excuſe my iade,
   Since from thee going he went wilfull ſlow,
   Towards thee ile run,and giue him leaue to goe.


Note:  A recitation can be heard here.

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