Richard Siken is a poet. He has released two marvelous poetry collections, each quite different from the other. The one, Crush, is about as excruciating and romantic and despairing a collection of poems as has ever been written; the other, War of the Foxes, is an evocative philosophical exploration of art, conflict, and purpose.

This evening, at a used bookstore, I found myself trying to remember the name of that second collection, and was abruptly convinced that it was something it was not. That fleeting thought invaded my mind and made it impossible for me to process anything else for quite a while. It was too horrendous, too perfect to ignore.

I'm not sure of my readership here, but either none of you will find this as funny as I do, or all of you will. In any case, enjoy, or not: