Having just read my great-aunt Edna’s Poems,
I am a little sick of love and death
(and wrenched grammar, and rather feeble rhymes).
It’s not all bad: the four lines on page two
are called Indifference.
More of that, I think:
Indifferent Poems by
Edna Clarke Hall.
Entire collections: Songs
to Nonchalance!
A Modern Requiem for
Lack of Interest!
Detachment Be My Guide!
Not death. Not love.
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