New York Times Review of Books


By James Alex Veech


Sunday sitting in my leather chair

New York Times in my lap

and buried between its pages,

the Review of Books.

Whenever I read

the Review these days,

I come away with a sense of my mortality.

Yet I read the Review front to back

despite my antagonism

over its unintended reminder of

how small is the circle of knowledge

I’ve mastered in a lifetime,

of how much of the world

there is left for me

still to know.


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