Nothing really urgent to say
until that passive-agressive aardvark abuts my house
and the neighbors call up to complain.

The woman with rubies for brains slips into a coma...

That's about as far as I can get with my James Tate impression. Whimsy masks hostility. He is attuned to the absurd in life. It is absurd that his best book was published in 1970. He's continued to write, but hasn't learned anything much; maybe his posture of dead-pan whimsy was not susceptible to that much development.

I'll parody your favorite or least favorite poet. Give me your suggestions.