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"We shape and are shaped by our location.
Plymouth, pliant mouth always telling stories, the lips of language kiss the limits of recollection. Pumpkin comes from Pohpukun, meaning, grows forth round. Wampanoag words. Massachusetts place of the foothill. Plymouth from Plymouth, England meaning “mouth of the River Plym.” A story: I was born on a coast’s crooked shoulder, where gauze-white waves sling shore and sand dunes frame dreams." 
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"In the mouth sits a Brythonic tongue,
meanders around meaning, where Plym is ploumenn; ploumenn is plum, and a plum mouth seems rather outlandish, doesn’t it? High classes taste fruits from the trees upon its banks, high classes hiring hands to pick the fruit for them, they will not taste it though, for hands have no mouths because... they are hands. Imagine, if you want, never knowing the juice or piquant of flesh, to be baptised in waters named after a fruit so out of reach yet told to stretch anyway, they’ve all gone away now."
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"Words can be
pilgrims too me to you and passing to readers everywhere; Mayflower’s wake ripples widening to our shores on both sides Atlantic cables these landlines,"
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" I think about Padgette in his cabin,
surrounded by a lake and ghosts, I am in a swamp of spilt toys that lay on the rug, haunted by weight gain, and repetitive strain. When this time comes to an end I will have to choose a new place to take photos, maybe tidy up, eat less, take my time a bit. Perhaps, I will write the next great American novel, though I’m not American nor a novelist. But should I let that stop me? Probably. What would you do? Will things continue as they did before?"
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