Coming back to the real poems of Bronk
I find them more varied, more full of a life not my own
and richer than my own, possibly.
They are less abstract than I had imagined,
stranger, and more beautiful even in their abstraction,
resembling very little my crude caricatures.
I like the way he fools you with what I might call a "dullness around the edges"
then hits hard with a poem you never saw coming.