Wednesday, August 18, 2004

I don’t know if it’s because I’m cranky this week (Jersey humidity) or because of what they themselves are, but this week’s New Yorker poems are not so good. I’m not going to attend to them, I think I’ll just leave them be, to compost gradually back to the soil gently and without offence. Jack Spicer says deformed poems have a right to be, so. Let them be in peace.

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