If you wrote poetry as a youngster you may be cursed to remember it for the rest of your life. Worse than the laughing stocks of “Exquisite Corpse”‘s Body Bag but not lively enough for kitsch, these verses are literally unspeakable. Their nubile limpidity retains a jingle-jangle innocence. Moments of dark exaltation see you blurt these lines out, some for the first time. You remember. Through guttural croakings of crowded anonymity you joined a pagan crowd, pointing and gyrating toward a New Years orb. In that moment of drowning you spoke your childhood poetry aloud, as familiar to you as Bible verse to a young nun. Like cold coffee poured into a river your words slipped through the crowd.