SUBJECT>Re: Separtion (Major Redux) POSTER>Jack M EMAIL> DATE>1111338315 IP_ADDRESS>1Cust4175.an4.den10.da.uu.net PASSWORD>aa3rfqIypCINk PREVIOUS>85084 NEXT> 85120 IMAGE> LINKNAME> LINKURL>

Hi, Ash.

You know, in some of this, the abstraction feels Jack Gilbert-like. Have you read the Great Fires? It's better mostly, to my mind, than his recent book. Anyway, the one thing this poem does that Gilbert usually doesn't is it lets the eye (the perception) of the poem wander in what feels like a more random way.

"Under the kitchen of the world" is compelling, but it's given up too soon for my money.

In another train of thought, I wondered what would happen if the first stanza were the last.

Overall, this poem holds together well, but somehow, I feel like I need to care more about it or the speaker. What could make me care more? Maybe a greater focus of perception through the language. Maybe something else that I haven't mentioned because I can't think of it.

Ok, well, I've got to go move some book shelves into storage.

Jack

: Separation

: Words suggest what distance they can.
: But this morning we’re quieted, driving
: beside the river road.

: For a week, we walked under the kitchen
: of the world, above the rushes, rehearsing
: yellow light, circling the table as if our ache

: could forget. We were worn by walking;
: a car on this road could change our minds
: but out here, people hang themselves

: on the loose ledge of compassion. Wipers smear
: the winter road. At the bridge we stop,
: unbuckle our lives, climb the rail.