tooknap press

I receive a rejection letter for my book of poems from Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, on pastel-colored stationery (cloud images on a light blue sky, water-stained). "Much like the poems submitted to our magazine from young and inexperienced writers, the vocabulary is peculiar, precise, bankrupt." She claims that while I've based my career on the distinction between life and dream, the result is all dream, and not enough real life. "And now, a little something about my own work..." The letter continues on the back side. I keep losing the train of the text, and search for it by turning the page over and over again like a windmill.