What I aspire to, a poem with no trace of untruth in it, and’s still poem and golden, and who’d have thought it, one in the New Yorker of all GD places gets me to the thought of it, and by an old friend no less, long lost touch with, but remembered in gladness.
Let’s see if I can link to it online, spare us all me retyping it … yes! Mónica de la Torre, “View from a Folding Chair.” Do please enjoy. I haven’t followed Mónica’s work, must now, on this evidence an inheritor to Oppen, lowly things recuperated, & a secular holiness.
the art of compost 