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Here's another book that is so poetically inert it isn't even bad. It doesn't even exist, so it will not be named here. Reading it I feel like a student who doesn't get the point of poetry in the first place, given a book by his professor to read. Only in this case I know I get the point of poetry, since I've had other experiences with it. If poetry were this, I'd have no interest in it at all. The worst thing is it's dedicated by its author to me. A gift! Don't worry, though, it's not by YOU.