Picking through Zuk's middle work (Some Time, Barely and Widely, and I's (pronounced eyes)) and wondering what I overlooked on my initial read, when meeting, wrestling, and coming to terms with his more luminous contentions. What about the line that is outside the horizon of my experience? Where does it go? This is one of those mornings when I speculate about how much I read poetry with an aim towards recognition:
a notion
painful and localized


relevance and theft
(Lines from Moxley's Often Capital.)

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