Publishers turn up at the party
breathing close for certain temperaments,
contemporaries to the underworld.
How rarely bestseller lists ought to
slow us down, impurifying the syntax
with ironic purpose. Every poem
At first appears a gritty, comical
formality, a face as “thine,”
a regular death. I first read
Sylvia Plath at the latest tour to Lorca
in winter rain and fresh-salt water
anthologies. Metaphor allows a meta-sunset
being put out. Matches,
privilege or perfection.
