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56 THE MINNESOTA REVIEW MARK VINZ ANTHOLOGY PIECE Your poems are like your photograph: posed, alluring, coyeternal non-events in almost syncopated time. We look, and look again, waiting for something to happen, sensing movement where your likeness disappears into the page: legs uncrossing themselves, a twitch, a bit of hair, a smell. But there is only the thin half smile it took you all these years to craftyour clothes so poet-like, your coif immortal, your eyes so metaphorically arranged. ...

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