Boys. Please. This little antiphony of maw mawing reminds me of a vivid image from "Everybody's Autobiography": "Picasso used to say during the war will it not be awful when Braque and Derain and all the rest of them put their wooden legs up on the chair and tell about their fighting?" Put down your wooden legs. It's a damn tent. Which sure as hell isn't going to protect anyone from anything life-threatening. A tent wouldn't have helped Lear on the heath. So what is it about? It's not Augustine, it's not Robert Lowell, it's not Coplans, it's not On Kawara. Why must it make much confessional claim? But it is a kind of notching in the wood, a series of marks and signs from a life. It is like a country quilt. Its (not it's) eloquence is mumbled; it's a simple thing. When the sneering starts, something always tells me something's there.