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A revised eighth volume of poetry from Tim Dale: And then the writing slowed. Maybe because of despair, or monotony, or because the days ran into the edges of each other. The borders of our experience shrank a little with social isolation, but a folly remained that the writing should stretch to fill the thoughts that we could no longer reach. And so smaller worlds gained our attention, in the preciseness of nature, or the knowingness of a smile. Here it was that we began a rehabilitation out of a hinterland that was not yet ours to inhabit, since for now, there were wondrous things to discover.
