One poem featured the Blob complaining to its mother about its lack of physical boundaries.
At times, one eavesdrops
in an attempt to develop a theory of place....
Like children shuttling between the homes of divorced parents, American poets feel obliged to negotiate poetic lineages.
...The inside of this wrist holds memories:/lips flushed against the palimpsest of my arm...
our bodies twisting together,/a kind of thunderstorm blue
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