without space, where each light,
each life, put out, lies down within us.
This mulching of life into life, and then into dust, has never been a "transition" to Kinnell; he will not flinch at what it means, how it cannot be reversed. And yet he will not lose hope, nor joy, nor desire in the face of its awful, unbendable reality.
from The Philadelphia Inquirer: A poet of nature, death, family--and love triumphant
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