Saturday, July 19, 2008

Courting Forgetfulness.

Fuck the cover. There's a new Robert Bly poem in this endlessly-discussed issue of the New Yorker. Maybe we should be paying attention to that.

The first stanza goes like this . . .

It’s hard to know what sort of rough music
Could send our forgetfulness back into the ground,
From which the gravediggers pulled it years ago.

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