![]() ![]() ![]() An effusive lover of flora, he is even more in thrall to the fauna that wander into his purview. He is now a more sober poet, if no less submissive to wonders he persuasively takes for signs. It was an interesting trope, but seemed to have taken over his senses at the expense of shading. That said, he has emerged from a middle period when everything in the world appeared to be in drag, mesmerising in its tawdry glamour, flamboyant and glittering. His is a refined existence, told with a careful display of refinement: even an injection of crystal meth demands an anemone. He is enough of an autobiographical poet for each collection to seem a new chapter in a continuing narrative. Mark Doty’s ninth collection locates itself in and around his cottage on Long Island. ![]()
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