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Bronk. Our Selves. 1999. 108 pp.

There's that hard bluntness again. The books are repetitive; the poems all versions of the same poem, and hence the variability of quality is evident. It's more of a diary than a collection of polished gems. I like the symbolic mode more than the allegorical mode in Bronk. I like it when the inuitition comes from sensory data, as opposed to when the concrete details are just an allegorical example of what doesn't really matter any way. Allegories of nihilism.