The sweet irony of writing a prose poem after a weekend spent putting the final touches to a lecture about the poetic stanza. I can’t remember when I fell off the line break wagon, nor when I stopped riffling my thoughts over the fret bars of iambic pentameter. I’m just not one to keep up the sustained passages of lyrical intensity. If a grand song-like flourish of emo-baroque ever does break out, let it happen in the midst of a dry passage about what goes on just beyond the window. It’s not healthy to fire up that old furnace so often when making poems. The Romantics have so much to answer for, no wonder so many died young. When I first read Borges I loved his early works of passion and youth and recoiled from the blind librarian that he became. How things change.

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