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61 Looking for Stephen Dunn You tell us not to write about what we really love, are close to. Too much at stake. The fictive, you say, adds interest. But then you say, finally the personal is all that matters, we spend years describing stones, chairs, abandoned farmhouses— until we’re ready. Well, I think I’m ready. That is to say, I’m in love with you. I discovered this at your last reading. Sure, you’re balding, a little pudgy in the Pulitzer—dressed in classic white shirts, and professorial vests. But I know I’m not alone when I say the way you recite your poetry is sexy. And the unwritten caption that to be wild means nothing you do or have done needs to be explained. I could imagine walking up to you, throwing down your New & Selected, and taking you to an abandoned farmhouse where I’d show you some of my best metaphors. You may say I’m not ready, that it’s a mistake to force a facile connection between art and life. But until then, I think I’ll keep on describing things to ensure that they really happened. ...

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