...circling words and connecting them with lines that crisscrossed this way and that. He diagrammed poems like an electrician might, with positive and negative charges, the power encapsulated, balanced, invisible, poised elegantly just this side of combustion. I remember how the chalk sounded like a popping, how he cupped his hand to push hair out of his eyes, how he paced, first to the windows, then back to the podium, arms alternately crossed then crammed in his frumpy no-iron slacks, brows knit, frowning with concentration. His thin-skinned, nail-chewed plumber's hands.

––Indiana Review, Vol. 19, No. 2, p. 39