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There is something quietly unsettling about opening David Markson’s Collected Poems. Not because the poems are obscure in any fashionable or performative way, but because they seem to have already abandoned the expectation that they should make themselves legible to you. They do not unfold. They sit there, almost indifferent, like objects recovered from a mind that has stopped negotiating with clarity. Even the foreword admits, with a kind of shrug, that some of these poems a