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[52] T wo P o ets : A S e q uel Long after the business of pain is closed you write a poem about it, this sharing of space in the same quarterlies with a woman you loved once. And I, seeing your poem as both complaint and threat, am forced to ask “Is it about us?” and you reply, “Who else?” It might comfort you to know that Nietzsche wrote the poets lie too much. Only now can I say I hope you won’t think it strange that I’ve saved your letters, what we used to call our eighteenth century correspondence. Or that I’ve bought a quilt like yours, the Chinese red one with the tiny flowers, only mine is white. And that I’ve stopped drinking apricot brandy. There’s one special time I keep returning to. Do you remember that afternoon we drank water from the poet’s spring? Your mother brought it all the way from Greece to New York, just for you. But you shared it with me. We took turns sipping from the lip of the tiny bottle, waiting to see if it would work. The water, I mean. Our deep image. ...


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Related ISBN
MARC Record
Launched on MUSE
Open Access
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