( via/ via )

Word-hoard.

I remember when i discovered The New American Poetry 1945-1960, thinking, wow people are still writing poems.

Day for feeling chilly.

"THERE'S THE RUB

Envying young poets the rage
You wish you could reverse your night
And blaze out born on every page
As old as them, as debut-bright.

Child of that prodigal spotlight
Whose wattage now is theirs to wage—
What gold star rite you wish you might
Raise revised to its first prize stage.

But listen to my wizened sage:
He claims there's one disadvantage
Should time renew you neophyte—

There'd be one catch you'd hate, one spite:
Remember if you were their age
You'd have to write the way they write."

—Bill Knott

Letting your dog make decisions.