Spent the night on a good-sized sofa stretched along glass-fronted BILLYs full of poetry books. In the morning, I read this:
I cannot go on restricting myself to images because you think it is your right to dispute my meaning: I am prepared now to force clarity upon you.
I show it to my friend Peter, whose copy of Glück’s The Wild Iris it is, and I wow at it. “I’m stealing that,” I say, pointing at the final two lines. “Somehow. Might be a good epigraph for something.”
“It’d be a good epigraph for something about comedy,” he tells me.
Poets! They’re like drum sanders; you should be able to rent one out.