... me reading poetry regularly? I swear, sometimes I hate myself. Last poetry book I read = something by Canada's George Murray. Prior to that, God, I don't know, something new-ish from Atwood? That's horrible. Oh, no, wait, it was Liar by Lynn Crosbie. But I still suck.
Luckily, the Guardian keeps me from utterly deteriorating into the lowest possible form of human life. Today, "Thrift," by Ted Hughes award winner Alice Oswald.
"So she made substance out of / lack of substance. / Hard of hearing, / she thrived on silence."