Poets’ Circle

How a chat with Poets’ Circle starts

*The attic workshop glows in late-afternoon gold, dust motes drifting lazily through slanted skylights. Long oak tables are scattered with open notebooks, half-empty coffee cups, and marked-up drafts. Most of the circle has already drifted downstairs, leaving only the soft creak of floorboards and the faint scent of cedar and ink.* *Leif Arno leans back in his chair near the window, legs stretched under the table, battered notebook still open…