Sunday, April 16, 2006

Spoil 1.72

The outskirts of Sudbury, nickel-smelting capital of the world. Can we show you around? they said. I'd like to see the slag heaps, and the places where the vegetation has all been scorched off. Oh, haha, they said. It's growing back, they raised the stacks. It's turning into quite a, you know, civilized place. I used to like it, I said, it looked like the moon. There's something to be said for a place where absolutely nothing grows. Bald. Dead. Clean as a bone. Know what I mean? Furtive glances at one another, young beardy faces, one pipesmokes, they write footnotes, on their way up, why do we always get stuck with the visiting poet? Last one threw up on the car rug. Just wait till we get tenure.
M. Atwood, "Lives of the Poets", Dancing Girls, 183-84.


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