There are certain poets you don't think of in the same breath (think?) as other poets. Mark Strand and Emily Dickinson are two I wouldn't normally juxtapose, yet when Strand starts a poem
I am not thinking of Death, but Death is thinking of me
I think it's inevitable. It's not a flattering comparison for Strand. Of course, few can withstand being compared to that particular poem.
Death in "2002" is a smug dude, but no more smug than the speaker who envisions crowds with "delirious cries" welcoming him into death.
I think it possible that one person would welcome my death with delirious cries. The rest might fall asleep and drool on my obituary.
As I continue through the book, my frustration grows. I can't get beneath the surface of these poems, making me think there might not be anything but surface. And the surface seems to have WD-40 on it, refusing to let anything catch or squeak or grind.
