My father was one. In my favorite story he was working a game in a frozen rain in York and after one play found a finger by the ball, but no one claimed it. So, he would say I lined them up and told them to hold out their hands. He found the kid, the center, in shock, trembling, staring straight ahead.                                  So—who do we need When we lie twisted at the bottom of things, in the furious speed of our going? Someone infinitely practical, a clear thinker to keep us safe. My father was one. Stripes suited him. Reprinted with permission Copyright © 2012 by Jeff Lacey

RELEASE by Jeff Lacey

Pen knife, do what you must: cut through the impossible knot so the leader may be retied to sail out again over the bright water of thought. Reprinted with permission Copyright © 2012 by Jeff Lacey

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