Shall We Gather At the River by James Wright. Wesleyan, 1968.

What I find odd, on re-reading this book, is the disjunction between the hobo who is the poetic persona and the oddly stilted poetic diction. Is this meant as a form of campiness? I doubt it; yet that's how I read it now. This allows me to like the book that I disliked the last time I looked at it.