I’m usually of the “there’s no such thing as too much poetry!” camp, but sometimes it is really exhausting to read poetry that doesn’t do anything. Make me cry, make me shudder, make me laugh, make me dry heave, make me come, make me want to write, make me want to never write again. Just do something.
I enjoyed reading Whitman and Detorie yesterday, and there’s some promising stuff sitting in my inbox, so maybe all is not entirely lost. Maybe it would be better if all were lost. (Un mot et tout est perdu. Un mot et tout est sauvé.)