This book contains forty-seven poems and no risks.
This book takes a stale look at nothing much, and fails.
This book is devoid of life.
This book is the most banal meditation on death I have ever read.
This book will make you weep – at the sad state of poetry.
This book’s author is supremely ungifted.
This book brings to mind the collective noun shqiparül, Ruritanian for a
load of rubbish.
This book has four corners and no spine.
If you have any comments on this
poem, Fiona Moore would be