Few poets today, even very good ones, write lines, as Stanley Moss does, that are so exquisitely crafted you cannot help but remember them. "What is heaven but the history of color," begins the new long poem after which this book is named. "We know at ninety sometimes it aches to sing," begins another poem, for a woman upon her ninetieth birthday. In the hands of this master, "Ah who art in heaven," transmigrates to the quieting "ah, ah, baby." And...
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Poetry