Friday, July 11, 2014


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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