Reading Pat Smith's poetry is like overhearing an uncomfortable chat between our hypnagogic consciousnesses and our public selves: ..".Who are we but screens/ Upon which we misread ourselves..." They are a dialogue wherein our childhood bullies and our lunch orders vie for attention and alteration as we take our Beta Agonists, relax our breathing and drink from "an upturned cup of infinite sky." Richard Roundy, Across the Margin
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