Our Selves by William Bronk. 1994.

This book, for me, has a lower ratio of hits to misses than other Bronk books. I only have three marked in the table of contents from my previous reading. The poems all seem to say the same thing. It is a tired book, written when the author perhaps did not have as much energy. Yet I always want to write my own Bronkiana poems whenever I read him:

E-mail

We sort through our messages; most are spam.
But, then, the real messages aren't that much more urgent.
Life, elsewhere, does its own thing.
We don't read the messages it send us.
Its urgency is not ours.