I was in a poetry rut. Shakespeare, Keats, Wordsworth and Wadsworth, Hesse, Byron, The Brownings: I was familiar with them all on a quotable level. I needed a new poetic fix and ended up running my index finger along the spines of paperback books in the poetry section at a Barnes and Noble store in Austin, Texas. Edna St. Vincent Millay. It was that name that made me pause. There was just something about it. […]