Lucky Words

About Lucky Words

A weekly* email newsletter about literature, art, trail running or hiking or riding or camping or walking or just sitting in the Utah mountains or the desert of the Colorado Plateau, and a good deal of poetry. luckywords.substack.com (https://luckywords.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast)

Publisher

Jeffrey Windsor

Category

arts · education

Language

en

Explicit

No

First episode

1 Apr 2017

Latest episode

16 Oct 2026

Latest episodes

93 episodes in the feed.

1. 

   16 Oct 2026

   How to read a poem, part 2: feel

   If you’re reading this on email, you can click on the header and go to the website and listen to an audio version of the essay (read by me, not some creepy AI). Also, at the very bottom I’ve got two announcements that might be of interest to some of you. How to read a poem: feel Here’s the lesson: emotion first, interpretation (maybe) second. Let’s start with a poem by Frank O’Hara, “A Step Away from Them” (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/42662/a-step-away-from-them) It’s my lunch hour, so I go for a walk among the hum-colored cabs. First, down the sidewalk where laborers feed their dirty glistening torsos sandwiches and Coca-Cola, with yellow helmets on. They protect them from falling bricks, I guess. Then onto the avenue where skirts are flipping above heels and blow up over grates. The sun is hot, but the cabs stir up the air. I look at bargains in wristwatches. There are cats playing in sawdust. On to Times Square, where the sign blows smoke over my head, and higher the waterfall pours lightly. A Negro stands in a doorway with a toothpick, languorously agitating. A blonde chorus girl clicks: he smiles and rubs his chin. Everything suddenly honks: it is 12:40 of a Thursday. Neon in daylight is a great pleasure, as Edwin Denby would write, as are light bulbs in daylight. I stop for a cheeseburger at JULIET’S CORNER. Giulietta Masina, wife of Federico Fellini, è bell’ attrice. And chocolate malted. A lady in foxes on such a day puts her poodle in a cab. There are several Puerto Ricans on the avenue today, which makes it beautiful and warm. First Bunny died, then John Latouche, then Jackson Pollock. But is the earth as full as life was full, of them? And one has eaten and one walks, past the magazines with nudes and the posters for BULLFIGHT and the Manhattan Storage Warehouse, which they’ll soon tear down. I used to think they had the Armory Show there. A glass of papaya juice and back to work. My heart is in my pocket, it is Poems by Pierre Reverdy. Let’s pretend that you don’t know anything about Frank O’Hara. You come across this poem in a weird little newsletter, and dutifully you read the poem and think to yourself: “and…?” Yes, at first blush it’s a poem where a guy goes on a walk, probably sometime in the middle of the 20th century based on some of his word choices and his mention of Jackson Pollock and a lady wearing fox fur. He goes on a walk at lunchtime, sees some stuff, and goes back to work. Why, you might think to yourself, would anyone read this? What’s the point? Slow down and visualize Last week I encouraged you to read a poem slowly, and to read it twice after a little gap in the middle. So go ahead and read it again right now. And… you’re still in the same place, aren’t you? Even though all the words are pretty easy, most people would scratch their heads and say, “see? This is what I hate about poetry. It isn’t about anything. It’s just, like, a list or something.” You wouldn’t be wrong in thinking this, but you would be still making some wrong assumptions. Let’s put aside any question of what the poem is “about.” You don’t need to know what it is about. Sometimes you can just take a poem on how it feels. So we need to figure out what this poem feels like. This O’Hara poem has a lot of good concrete images and references. Can you picture going on a walk on a hot day in New York City, where laborers with dirty torsos are eating sandwiches and drinking Coca-Cola on their lunch break. They’re wearing yellow hard hats. Women calf-length skirts are walking, and the skirts are swishing as they walk. A man in a doorway silently watches a pretty girl walk past, he doesn’t say anything but he smiles and rubs his chin. On your walk, stop and get a cheeseburger and a shake. Keep walking. See the posters on the buildings that they’re about to tear down. Stop and get a glass of juice to drink. Head back to work. Try to really picture this. Picture yourself walking, or imagine a movie where they’re filming this happening. What music would you use for the soundtrack? What music feels right? My O’Hara afternoon Last summer I took a trip to NYC and did a lot of walking around. New York is a great city for walking. I saw posters on buildings that were under construction, and I ate a hamburger at a burger joint (https://www.hamburgeramerica.com/) just a couple of blocks from Washington Square Park. I visited the Strand bookstore (of course), and a used bookstore that also sells pickles, and waited in a very long line to get a sandwich at Katz’s deli. (And, yes, I did have a book of poetry in my pocket. Of course I had a book of poetry in my pocket.) No one would ask me what my walk was “about.” It was about walking around NYC and seeing stuff. It was about feeling the city. O’Hara published the poem above in 1964 in his collection called Lunch Poems. This poem exudes the energy of a walk through New York on a warm summer noontime. And of course there’s a lot more going on that just a walk. Like, for instance, what’s going on with this line: “First / Bunny died, then John Latouche, / then Jackson Pollock. But is the / earth as full as life was full, of them?” I wonder who Bunny is. I wonder who John Latouche is. It really doesn’t matter that I don’t know who they are, because I feel this jazzy energy when I read the poem. I feel transported to a different time and a different place than I’ve ever visited. Because the New York I visited is similar to O’Hara’s but it is clearly also very different. I can only get there through the poem. All poetry plays with emotion The rule for poetry for today is to put aside meaning and just feel. Let the music of the poem move you. Let it push you forward. Think of poetry like music rather than meaning. This is not to say that poetry is always just music. Clearly, many poems have something they want to say, but at some level a good poem is also about making you feel something. This is not a foreign concept: you listen to music and it moves you. When you listen to instrumental music, you don’t think “but what does this song mean?” The song doesn’t need to mean anything. Listen to this selection of Liszt’s Piano Sonata in B Minor (https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=N0snKyDTfM4): is it saying anything? No: it’s not necessarily telling a story and preaching with a moral. Sometimes a piece of music might be sad or exciting, it might calm you down or hype you up. The music is doing something emotional in your brain, to your brain. And a poem, a good poem at least, should do the same thing. So, in practical steps, try this. Read a poem (slowly, twice) and then try to name what it is the poem is trying to make you feel. Note that I say to name what the poem is trying to make you feel. Some poems will fall flat. You won’t feel anything. That’s on the poem. A good poem will reward an attentive reader, but many poems are failed attempts. That’s just how it works. No one likes every piece of music, and no one likes every poem. Don’t get too worried if you don’t feel anything. Move on the to the next one, and see if that one clicks for you. An example of a very different poem I recorded a video (https://youtu.be/SOd588A5j94) the other day doing a reading and some analysis of a pretty well-known poem, Gerard Manley Hopkins’s “God’s Grandeur.” The world is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil; It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod? Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil; And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod. And for all this, nature is never spent; There lives the dearest freshness deep down things; And though the last lights off the black West went Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs — Because the Holy Ghost over the bent World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings. Watch my video and see the beautiful scenery (because hot dang the mountains around my house are looking spectacular right now), but also look at how I point out some of the deliberate musicality Hopkins puts in here. All the alliteration (“grandeur of God,” “shining from shook foil,” “gathers to greatness” “ooze of oil,” “reck his rod,” “nature is never spent,” “world broods with warm breast”), or the rhymes “seared... smeared... bleared,” “foil, oil, soil, toil”), or the rhythm of “have trod, have trod, have trod.” All of this feels very poetic. And still many people read Hopkins and say, “dang, I can’t figure out what that guy is talking about.” If you do the process of reading slowly and reading twice you might start to unpack it, but really, why not just enjoy the way it feels? Practical Application Once you have tentatively named the emotion that the poem is trying to get you to feel, now look back at the poem and see if you can identify what tricks the poet is using to get you to feel that way. Maybe it’s the words he chooses. Maybe it’s like O’Hara and his use of so many concrete images that feel specific to a time and place. Maybe it’s the rhymes and rhythm of Hopkins. You don’t need to know the names of these tricks: you’ll know them when you see them. Make up your own names for things (“words that all start with the same sound” or “lots of words with ooh in them” or “a whole bunch of long words all at once”). If this feels too much like reading poetry in school, know that there’s no grades here and you don’t need to be comprehensive. You don’t even, really, have to be correct. You’re looking for what is making the poem tick for you, because the poem is interesting to you. Sometimes it’ll be language things, like Hopkins, and sometimes it’ll be the subject or ideas, like O’Hara. Maybe there’s a personal reason why a poem works for you; that’s ok, too. A caveat: do you have to do this stuff to read poetry? If you’re thinking to yourself, “but can’t I just read the poem, and then read the next poem, and then read the next poem?” Sure, you can. You can choose to read poetry just like how you read non-fiction prose. That’s one way to do it. But poetry invites you to read differently, more thoughtfully. This is a style of reading that non-fiction prose (and most fiction prose, too) simply cannot sustain. Poetry can be read deeply, and the process of reading and feeling and disassembling and interrogating: this is part of the pleasure of poetry. But sometimes the pleasure of poetry is just in reading for the vibes, too. Anthology Last week I shared a few poems (https://luckywords.substack.com/i/219534427/homework) and called it “homework” but I’ve decided that’s probably trauma-inducing for some of you. This is just an anthology of some interesting poems to practice on. You might go back and look at the poems from last week with today’s lesson in mind. Look at Auden’s “Twelve Songs: IX” (it begins “Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone”) and think about how that one makes you feel. Ooof. It’s a punch in the gut, isn’t it? Or Whitman’s “I Hear America Singing,” which makes me want to sit up a bit straighter, hold up my chin and be proud of my nationality.[^ Even despite, you know... everything.] What word would I use to describe the feeling that Mark Strand evokes in “Eating Poetry”? Maybe subversive, or mad, or manic? Here’s some poems that you might enjoy for this week. I’ve tried to stick with poems that you probably haven’t read before, and I’d be interested to hear if any of them resonate with you (or, on the other hand, any of them leave you cold). * “Snow Day” (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46707/snow-day) by Billy Collins * “How to Triumph Like a Girl” (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/149814/how-to-triumph-like-a-girl) by Ada Limón * “Vespers (Once I believed in you)” (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49758/vespers-once-i-believed-in-you) by Louise Glück * “Anticipated Stranger,” (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53385/anticipated-stranger) by John Ashbery * “Hysteria” (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44211/hysteria) by T.S. Eliot Least Bad Poem of the Week Still thinking about a title for this one. “Tables” maybe (as in “tables of stone”), or “Etching”? I’ll probably wake up tomorrow with an idea that’s way better than these, but that’s what we get with the Least Bad Poem of the Week: still always a work in progress! And not all of them are winners! “Tables” God spoke to Moses— bare feet and burning bushes— works for the guy in the room, but it doesn’t scale. So later for the whole crowd God wrote it down, etched on stone. I told you this morning I love you, and I gave you a kiss. But now just so no one forgets or becomes distracted, I wrote this poem, too. Fiction! We return briefly to Ashley and Heather, as overheard first here (https://luckywords.substack.com/i/215158718) and then here (https://luckywords.substack.com/i/217339643/some-fiction). There’s still more to come from these two (and Ashley’s cute-but-klepto boyfriend). “For how long?”“Two months. Off on a field assignment, and mostly out of cell range.”“I thought everywhere had cell coverage these days.”“Not in Alaska, apparently. I think it’s the Brooks Range. It’s supposed to be one of the most remote places in the US.”“What will you do?”“What can I do but wait? I’ll just, I don’t know, do my normal stuff, I guess. And two months isn’t that long, Heath.”“Oh, Ash, he hasn’t even left yet and you’re already pining.”“Yeah. Yeah, I am.” Wrapping Up And here’s the two announcements: books! * I’m putting the final formatting touches on a book of poetry that you can purchase! It’s called Ghosts and other poems and in includes my poem “Ghosts” as well as other poems. It’ll be available on Amazon as an ebook (if I can get the formatting kinks worked out!) and as a printed book (also from Amazon). I’m quite happy with the poems in the book, many of which I’ve featured here already. If you’re looking to start a poetry library, this might be a good place to start... For those who are paid subscribers: I’m going to send you a free copy of the ebook (Kindle and PDF formats) as a thank you for being so incredibly supportive. * I am working on another book as well! This is a collection of Christmas themed essays and poems, and will be out (fingers crossed) before the start of Advent on November 29. This is an explicitly Christian take on the holiday, and will be a great book to bring some good Christmas calmness into your life. This, too, will be sent for free to paid subscribers, and the rest of y’all should look for it on Amazon in about a month. (Full disclosure: there’s still a lot of work left to do here, and I’m not 100% sure I’ll make it in time. But I’ll try!) Working (and maybe final?) title: The Christmas Book. (Catchy, huh?) Here in Utah, we had a few days of rain and the weather has shifted from mid 80s to mid 60s. There’s a nice cap of snow on Timp and Cascade. The blood of my Nordic ancestors is feeling a sense of relief. All is well, Jeff Get full access to Lucky Words at luckywords.substack.com/subscribe (https://luckywords.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4)

2. 

   25 Sept 2026

   A Bookmobile Full of Friends

   This is a reading of the main essay from today’s letter. Not included in the audio: the poem and the fiction (but they are here in the notes). You should subscribe to the email version at luckywords.substack.com On Books Kate and I had our anniversary this week, and we went book shopping. Besides perhaps the grocery store and church, bookstores are where we’ve spent our marriage, so it feels appropriate that we spent part of our day spending money on books. It was a used bookstore (http://pioneerbook.com), in part because we like the selection and in part because we like the prices. The book I bought was $7, but there was a 40% off sale going on, so I got it for less than the cost of a gallon of gas at the pump. At freeway speeds, my car gets about 3 gallons per hour, so the math works out very much in favor of the book: will I get 20 minutes of value from the book? The answer to that is almost always yes. Thrift stores are an even better value of course, since most books come in at a half gallon or less, but the selection is hit or miss, and there’s no organization. Plus it feels strange to plop down on a couch with a pile of books at a thrift store. Someone might want to buy that couch. And of course that couch will have that suspicious basement smell, and the couches at our local used bookstore feel very hygienic. The book I bought was an old collection from Garrison Keillor called We Are Still Married and even if I hadn’t actually wanted it, it was our anniversary so I couldn’t not buy it. The intro, the only part I’ve read so far, is from another age. It talks about Ronald Reagan as a contemporary figure and pokes fun at Dan Quayle. There’s a big part of me that feels like 1990 wasn’t all that long ago, which I know makes me feel like an out-of-touch old man. I may be out of touch, but I really don’t feel all that old. On the other hand it was our 33rd wedding anniversary, so I’m not that young either. I feel like just the right age. Just the right balance of young and old: understanding but not indulging in the excesses of youth, grazing but not wallowing in the wisdom of age. Which would sound awfully prideful if it weren’t manifestly true that I’m obviously not enjoying abundant wisdom nor experiencing abundant energy. Dumb and lazy, that’s my style. Perfect balance; just the right age. Garrison Keillor was 47 when the book came out, and he talks as if 47 made him a grizzled veteran of life. I look back at 47 with some nostalgia. Keillor is now in his 80s, and I can only guess about what the thinks about his 47-year-old self. The book is paperback, originally $8.95—which is less than two gallons of gas at my local pump today—and has that wonderful soft paper that Penguin uses in its paperbacks. It’s pleasant to flip the pages and feel them feather across my thumb, the whisper of pages that sounds like sitting next to a person sleeping on the couch, book in lap. The pages are not white, not like my notebook or the glowing screen of your phone, but a softer color: paper that is admitting it used to be wood. This book is a humane object not a consumer product, because I won’t consume it. I’ll read it, but the book will persist, happy to be read and then ready, undiminished, for the next reader after me. Plus if I’m lucky I can take it back to the used bookstore and they’ll give me a buck for it, and they’ll mark it up again and sell it again. The real capitalist move is to sell the same object three, four, five times. Who am I kidding? I won’t sell this book back. If I weren’t going to keep the book I would have borrowed it from the library. For zero dollars I could have read the book and for zero dollars someone else would read it after me. Meanwhile library employees do their work for free, apparently⁠. If I only wanted to rent the book I’d borrow it, otherwise if it comes from the bookstore it is staying with me for the long haul. Kate keeps threatening me that when we run out of bookshelves, we will need to weed out our books. But we can always fit another bookshelf in the house, and I could always double-stack the books on the shelves that we’ve got. Sure, double stacking makes it difficult to find the book you’re looking for, but it’s excellent for dust collection, and besides who is the boss around here anyway?⁠ I am of course joking about never removing any books from our collection. Over the years, I have given plenty of books to the thrift store or taken them to the used bookstore. Numerous books. Surely over the years I have pruned literally tens of books from our shelves. Our dear friend Ellen says, “There’s always room on the friend bus.” And since a good book is a true friend, there’s always room for more books. Young people today meet potential partners via apps: swipe left, swipe right, DM, DM, swipe right, swipe left. It’s not unlike book shopping, really. I absolutely first judge a book by the cover. The cover causes me to pause, the pause gives me a chance to pick it up, picking it up encourages me to read the blurbs on the back cover, which leads to looking at the author photo, and finally I’ll start reading⁠ a couple of pages somewhere in the middle to get a flavor for the prose. How long before I feel hooked? Most of the time I put the book back on the shelf for someone else. Swipe left, swipe right. When I make the commitment to buy a book—and it is a commitment to join my shelves for perhaps the rest of my mortal life—I will bring the book home and that night read for ten minutes, maybe half an hour. And then maybe it will go onto my shelf, never to be touched again. A book is a friend, not a member of the family. The difference between friend books and human friends is that friend books won’t load themselves onto the truck when it comes time to move. To be fair, human friends aren’t loading themselves either, but the good ones are loading something and can talk while we work together. Books are prima donnas in that regard: when they get my attention they want all of it. No, don’t clean the kitchen, don’t get dressed, don’t talk with anyone else, don’t drive to the store.⁠ But also no “where have you been?” when I return from a multi-year hiatus. On this standard, how does my iPhone match up? Same push for all my attention with an added burden of neediness. The phone begs for my attention. It tugs at my sleeve. It punches me in the leg. It pulls the fire alarm. It is jealous of everything else.⁠ But! the iPhone collects no dust and doesn’t need an entire truck when I move. So it’s a mixed bag. Then again, a used book costs me a gallon of gas, 20 minutes of driving. That’s a trip to Costco and back. The cost of my phone is a drive from Boston to Los Angeles. Then to Denver. Then Dallas. Then Atlanta.⁠ Wow I hate my phone right now. And yes of course I’ve got books on my phone. I have dozens. No, I just checked: hundreds. My Kindle app has more than 500, and there are more than a hundred more in Apple Books, and also Serial Reader, Readwise Reader, Libby, Hoopla, not to mention audiobooks which I’m skipping over for now. So my phone can be a vehicle for reading books, but never with as much pleasure as the paper-ink-glue variety. As an object, my phone has as much attraction for me as someone else’s toothbrush. The addictive aspect of the phone is all software. What draws me to the book as an object is how sensuous it is: earthy, warm, soft. On the floor next to me I’ve got 13 books. On the bookshelf at my shoulder are another hundred or so. I’ll say about 300 in the room, and a couple few thousand in the house. Plenty of room for growth. There’s always room on the friend bus. Least Bad Poem The poem’s title is still doubly a work in progress, but I didn’t want to just have another “untitled” poem, and the first line is clearly not the way to go in this case. “Rumbling” Dozing off in my chair Like an old man, Book spread across his (my) belly, Gentle snore thrumming in my (his) chest, I do not know how long The lovers have paused their tiff But my languor has colored their quarrel Into pleasant warm hues And maybe they will reconcile Into a new happy, cozy love, Or maybe they will split forever And find their peace Only hazily remembering Where they once argued In a comfortable chair Under a warm sunny window To the content, rumbling breathing Of an old man reading. The Least Bad Poems that I share aren’t always quite so closely linked with the subject of the essay, but today it seemed too tidy to pass up. Plus, I love the tiny echo to Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn” with its interrupted lovers. This poem also speaks to the involvement that readers play in the process of transforming written words into a story: the reader’s background, current condition, and prior reading will change how we interpret a text. In this case, the pleasant nap alters the timbre of the events in the story, even though it can’t change the events themselves. I’m certain that there are some books that I liked a lot more because of where I was reading it than if I had read it at another time or in another place, and conversely, there are some books that I might have enjoyed much more had I switched into a pleasanter locale. Some Fiction We least heard from these two a couple of weeks ago (https://substack.com/@jeffreywindsor/p-215158718). Overheard: Heather and Ashley “He’s good, thanks. He says hi.” “So, hey: do you have anything left in your apartment, or has he liberated everything?” “Ha ha, very funny.” “Well?” “Well what?” “Is he still swiping your stuff?” “Just little stuff, nothing important. You wouldn’t even notice.” “It’s going to be so weird if you guys move in together. Suddenly you’ll have a full set of dishes again.” “It’s not…” “Have you said anything to him about it ever?” “No! No, of course not. I couldn’t.” “You want me to?” “Hell no! Honestly, Heather, in every other way, he’s like Mr. Right. He’s funny, he listens, he has interesting stories from work that he likes to tell me at night.” “How often are you seeing him, anyway?” “Pretty much every day. He comes over for dinner. Or we go out. Most days, we’re together.” “Does he have a toothbrush at your house?” “Toothbrush, yes. Door key, no.” “So he’s not living there yet?” “No, no. My mother would freak. Oh my gosh. That would be a catastrophe. So no, he’s got his own place, and he sleeps there.” “… most of the time…” “Yeah… most of the time. I know this sounds so dumb, but when we’re together, it’s like we were created to go together. Like puzzle pieces. He’s so easy to be with. Sometimes, we don’t even talk, and it’s not weird or awkward or anything. And, I have to say, his lips and hands seem to have a direct connection with my mind: like a dream.” “… whew. Maybe don’t mention the kleptomania, then.” “That’s for sure. If that’s the price I have to pay…” “What’s a little misdemeanor between friends, right? Or lovers?” Wrapping up What’s the last book you purchased? And I mean a real paper-ink-glue book and not an ebook. For me it was, obviously, We Are Still Married and Otherwise: New & Selected Poems by Jane Kenyon. Before that, probably Harvest by Jean Giono. I have bought a few ebooks (a collection of E. B. White pieces from The New Yorker and the complete poems of Jim Harrison earlier this week), usually when I can find them on sale at absurd prices (like, under $3). All is well, Jeff Get full access to Lucky Words at luckywords.substack.com/subscribe (https://luckywords.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4)

3. 

   6 Mar 2026

   "What lips my lips have kissed" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

   Howdy! Another audio-first production, this time a sonnet by the fabulous 20th century poet Edna St. Vincent Millay. This one was recorded on a hike up Provo Canyon (yes, again—hey, it’s just up the street and, frankly, it’s a pretty great canyon) shortly before we finally (!) got some snow. What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more. As I mention in the audio, there’s much to love about this poem. Mostly for me, it’s wonderful because it’s a love poem to herself. All sonnets are love poems, or they contain the echo of a love poem. In this poem, Milay is longing for the woman she used to be. The men in this poem? They’re forgotten. They have no faces and no bodies. They are “unremembered lads.” What Milay does remember is how they made her feel, long ago. This is a poem about aging. She remembers those times back when she was young and beautiful and carefree, when the boys lined up. Those were in the summer, and now, in the poem, it’s winter. What were once branches full of noisy birds, now the “birds have vanished one by one” and in the present of the poem, those “boughs [are] more silent than before.” What we can get from this poem is a feeling. We can take Milay’s nostalgia and try it on for a while. What do we remember from our summer times, and what does it feel like now, looking back? When our memories of faces has faded, what’s left? Milay’s poem invites you to just hold on to that feeling of used-to-be, and in holding it, find some pleasure in that, too. All is well, Jeff Get full access to Lucky Words at luckywords.substack.com/subscribe (https://luckywords.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4)

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Apple Podcasts (US)

5.0 / 5

8 ratings

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40

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0

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Engagement

68