great feeble angels, long-winged and slow

The best books are the ones you realize too late it was a mistake to finish in public, but you cannot put them down, so you slip a napkin out of its rusty canister and hunch over it, waiting for the end.

“But she knew this: when we grieve in our lives, we grieve for just the one person, friend, brother, son; but when we grieve for our own in poems, we grieve for all, for every one. It was all she had done, if she had done anything.”

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