This is my poem about Harold Bloom’s A Map of Misreading.
I wrote a poem
About a bird, in a bush.
And Harold Bloom said, “See, you are obsessed with Shelley.”
And I said, no, this is about a bird
Or maybe my parents
Or maybe a girl I like
Or maybe just a bird.
And Harold Bloom said, “No, Shelley”
He said, “I have this map”
And yelled a bunch of Greek
And he seemed pretty confident, and now I don’t even know.
Harold Bloom called me after he read this poem, to murmur that it had a weak clinamen and that it was locked in an obvious death struggle with Marianne Moore.