This thick book of new American
poetry
Has been to Syracuse, Agrigento, Noto
Palermo, Segesta and Cefalu. It moved
From the large suitcase to the
small; one day
It rode in the shoulder bag. I
wrote my name
On the first page (intruding
myself among
My published betters). I almost opened it
In Frankfort, where I stayed a
night,
Among the business travellers in a
hotel
Whose staff was frighteningly
helpful,
Shimmering up suddenly to give directions
To the very best elevator bank.
Home now,
I start reading it.
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