It began with the long, silent drive past endless
lobster pounds and fishing towns that litter
the landscape of Down East Maine like seagulls
swarming a freshly pulled pot, like canvas tents
on the small island that was my summer home. ~excerpt from poem
"Down East Maine,"
The Tuxedo Archives: Vol. 2011
, Article 5.
Available at: http://scholar.dominican.edu/tuxedolit/vol2011/iss1/5