Written on May 2, 2008
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What is more touching
than a used-book store on Saturday night,
dowdy clientele haunting the aisles:
the girl with bad skin, the man with a tic,
some chronic ass at the counter giving his art speech?
That’s poet August Kleinzahler in his poem “San Francisco/New York” nailing a miniature portrait of the biz in just a few lines. The NYT recently profiled him.