Editor   Parsing syntax, remodeling dashes, dots, and commas, blowing the whistle on all the errant, misbegotten words — that’s not worth a drop of her ink, sweat, alcohol, blood, or coffee, not when weighed against her honest work of marshaling the silence. She gently hushes the stagehands and lowers the houselights, focuses the spot: Tell me your story, Mister Book, Ms. Manuscript, Citizen Poem, I’m here, ready to be impressed. Do your stuff, love me. You’re equipped to go the distance? Will I get to meet the genie in your bottle? Nothing’s wrong — the only voice is your voice. Sing your song.                                                                for Mimi     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont December 2010