Being other poets

Just sometimes newly arrived books feel as if they are there but not-there. There is a place of read-and-considered, even public; not-there is invisible. Often the fate of poetry books and poets, so it's not a new feeling I have, far from it, but a decidely weird variation on the familiar. Two newly arrived books with names and 'realities' some may find hard to position.

 

Perhaps this is the face of the poet wondering.

 

 

 

 

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