These poems are filled with the accumulated treasure of a lifetime,
yet at their heart is the loss that fuels this dream of abundance:
the friend to be mourned, the child to be loved, the poem to be
written. Again and again, The Iron Key brings us to the door that
opens onto the future. from "April 2003" I felt like a boy again,
my navel flat as a dime The glamour of protest, however
compromised, Our certainty old people were wrong. Poetry is against
war or else it isn't poetry Said my friend the poet, as if by
breathing We were glamorous."
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