New York

Frank Moore

Sperone Westwater

In “Days of 1964” the poet James Merrill wrote: “I hoped it would climb when it needed to the heights/Even of degradation, as I for one/Seemed, those days, to be always climbing/Into a world of wild/Flowers, feasting, tears—or was I falling, legs/Buckling, heights, depths/Into a pool of each night’s rain?” Like Merrill, Frank Moore seems to be unsure of when he is rising and when he is falling; hovering tentatively in the same electric, soul-wrenching, longed-for space of pending despair. Moore’s recent work shares the passionate engagement, richness of experience, and technical self-assurance of Merrill’s poetry. Though Moore’s subject is not exactly love (as Merrill’s is), his narration of loss and hope—whether his subject is environmental decay or illness or some other desecration where there should be only beauty—has the dignity that lovers earn, and they only by holding to each other.

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