a bird’s eye. Tipsy cedar waxwings, falling-down-drunk woodchuck, snails in a saucer of beer. With birds it was mountain ashberries. With Ashbery, nothing remembered after five, any city. Dallas: everyone charging their bar bill to Stafford’s room. Larry Queen’s Molotov cocktail thrown into the Blue Moon where everyone was still toasting Roethke. Holy watering hole, and we come out not quite whole without him. Volume 8 No 1 - Page 45
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