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[To Women Waiting at the Gynecologist]

American literature sprung truly from the soil of democracy would be lively, but unrefined, poor on rules of thumb, sacrificing refinement to vitality.


[He Who Talks With A Fist And The Voyeur]

What would a trip to Paris be without a gentle kiss from Destiny?

Here’s a poem by Federico Garcia Lorca that could change your life, if your name is Euclid or Bernhard Reimann.


When love and all its fruit come into question, you know you have a problem.

I am about to model for you a form of close reading that does not need effort so much as stealth, and curiosity, and the willingness to wrestle with angels.

[3 Poems from “62 Sonnets”]

Does poetry think with philosophy? Or might we re-pose the question: does poetry rely on philosophy to think?

[Secrets of the Garden of a Vacant House Seen in a Dream]

Perhaps it is the ends of art I hate--the way it is "valued" rather than integrated into the dynamic of being alive.

The first books I saw when I walked in were Franco Moretti’s two-volume history of the novel. I’m in paradise.

[Three Prose Poems]

A garden, like all true relationships, is a pact with loss, with effacement, and when we fear effacement, it already begins to give birth to power and envy and death inside us.

It’s always a relief to me when I see a book published by somebody outside the “poetry ghetto.”