are probably more gettable in the book.
But the writers themselves are fetching.
Did I get a sense of hearing
a given fuck
read aloud? Or rather, did the poems this evening
only make me feel I was leaving
the feast unfed—getting in my truck
and absconding—(maybe with that fetching
trans writer)—not optimistic about squeezing
blood from a turnip, much less
from the poems read this evening?
But they just need a little leavening:
these printed St.-Paul-Almanac
poems will prove to be plenty fetching
when the writers themselves as normal kvetching
people fetch us, with their verve and pluck—
the poems just a pretext
for such earnest fetching.
