We all die-but we all die differently. It's not death's certainty, but it's unpredictability, that troubles us-the when, where, and how of death, rather than the fact. Whether our deaths come by accident, illness, old-age, or other people, it's always too late to turn back-hopefully not writhing in agony or blubbering like cowards. "Death," according to poet Wallace Stevens, "is the mother of beauty"--and these poems, beautiful and not. Most are meditations...
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Poetry