[Scroll down to Monday.]
I am digging this poem from No Tell Motel by Clay Matthews. I like it because I am surprised, via it, at myself--that I can tolerate a conceit so "pretty" sustained over so many lines. I'm finding I've mostly lost patience for that kind of thing because so often such threads are overdone, pushed too hard, embroidered to the point of gaudy. In this case though, I felt myself fall at first into a predisposed groove but I couldn't stay there.
A pretty personal reading and more about my prejudices than the poem, I suppose. But I like it.
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