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In her seventh book of poetry, Debora Greger walks out of art history class andinto Europe, even to the edge of Asia. A night wedding in Venice, an encounter with a girl on an aqueduct in Istanbul, a walk into the emptiness of the Florida prairie, standing before a Rembrant or a tomb in Ravenna-these portraits of travel reveal a poet never at home even when home. Debora Greger's poems love the accident of discovery; she is a poet whose intimacies are expressed in whispers, whose secrets come in sidelong glances.
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