And then there's this other bloke, C.K. Williams (what's wit the initials wit these guys, eh?), in the same issue with some lame poem about a tiny insect (a fly, a midge, I want to know) being compared and/or contrasted with Tsvetayeva's essays. Is this a cop-out or what? Isn't this so done.
The New Yorker is, like, a major player, an institution. They must have da money to pay for good stuff, not crapola. Please explain! Or are these guys the real cream cheese and I just don' geddit.