'One starts to see why “admitting” to a dislike of poetry might be endearing. Poetry haters aren’t rubes; they’re idealists. The genre’s problem is bound up in its soaring ambition, its intent to render the intensely personal tones of a writer’s inner life somehow intelligible and world-transfiguring to all. Poetry—less a set of practices than a sheaf of impossible demands—inspires so many denunciations and so much hostilitybecause, even at its best, it powerfully envisions a threshold it can’t quite clear. Nothing can. Poems are supposed to do everything at once, but just the fact of a poem’s existence crowds out all the other, fairer ghost-poems it could have possibly been.'