In a series of moving elegies, Richard Jackson remembers four friends who died in the past year: Tomaž Šalamun, Tomas Tranströmer, James Tate, and Aleš Debeljak
"... I got to the end, and I thought, the kid did it. It’s very witty.”
YES. Home. Fucking. Run.
“But,” Levine said, “it’s not a poem.”
Wait — what?