All Elizabeth Bishop, all the time
Following up on "Washington as a Surveyor", the New Yorker has gone Bishop, 24/7. Or anyway there are three poems under her name in the current issue. These are much less finished works, with (I suspect) rather more editorial input, and are in need of either more such or not being presented as poems. "In a Cheap Hotel..." begins:
In a cheap hotelat which point I knew I was looking at a mess. I've now got a bad feeling about The Uncollected Poems, but we'll see.
in a cheap city
Love held his prisoners or my love