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“I have all sorts of justifications for why I ended up here,” Mahou writes. In describing that journey, Towards Being Infinite takes the reader to exhilarating and mundane places. A sensory deprivation tank in East Oakland, an Amtrak Train gun locker, the runway of Boston’s Logan Airport. The result might fairly be called excellent travel poetry. But the book also illustrates Mahou’s belief that poetry inescapably reflects the literal place it comes from. Said better, “words are worlds pushed to some sort of edge, left to drift in water or spread as smoke.”
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