Some junk comes in the mail, this time from The Library of America trying to get me to subscribe to receive a series of books "not available from any other publisher,"

and as if Walt Whitman is in need of Harold Bloom as editor to a Selected,
and as opposed perhaps to the other way around.

I guess these are books for those too lazy to go out and find books for themselves,
taking all the fun out of it, and bleeding the life out of poetry in the process of such blatant commodification,

and yet another instance of that mindless shoveling as depicted so well by Creeley's "Supper."