My two or three cents:
I haven't read much of Harrison's poetry, because I don't like it. He's always struck me as a kind of Big-Sky Bukowski-- and I don't like Bukowski, either.
Not that this poem's first 11 lines did much for me, but the last two are so disappointing. So . . . Now, why'd ya have to go and write that? Not just the blase misogyny, but the measuring of one joy against any other joy-- asking whether it "equals" this or that. As rustic and unpretentious as all the camping trip pleasures are, the rating/comparing belies the mindset of narrow, shallow hedonism.
A poem like this one just begs to be parodied. But that got done already, anytime anyone parodied Hemingway.
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