in the living room, being entertained by my children, who had let him in. He was just back from Italy and had a new poem for which he had prepared an English trot. He presented the text to me, and asked me, what did I think of it? I hemmed and stalled, trying to take it in: this part looks wonderful, but I'm not sure I understand this other section . . .
from Robert Pinsky: Poetry Magazine: No Tiara, No Crown
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