Boxing
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A few lines a day, Goethe said. Not to get all meta about it but this poetry business must have been easy for him. Maybe he could scratch out “a few lines” and not have to rework, rework, rework, and they would fit like tenons together in a carpenter’s drawer day after day, poem after poem, long and short, each join smooth, every drawer gliding easy at least — many without any friction at all. Me? I’m in Moore’s corner. “I hate it too,” she said as she climbed in the ring each day to fight it out with words, to cross and jab language hard while heeding Calliope’s often unhelpful orders, who shouts at the edge of awareness, barking whispers from the dark sidelines. Not to get all meta about it but “hate” seems the right word. “Love” too.