and fork appear as strange talismans of some primitive civilization only a poet can unearth. Wandering the tangled byways of his imagination, we discover in our own workaday streets a phantasmagoria of the ordinary. The closed butcher shop contains "knives that glitter like altars/In a dark church"; the tailor's dummy in a dusty window almost winces from its ordeal, pins skewering the dark cloth.from The Washington Post: Charles Simic collects his best poems from 1962-2012
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