[Allen Tice]

Claudia (I knew a Claudia in California when I was six to eight years old), I was thinking more about a recent item online about hens mobbing a juvenile fox that had somehow sneaked through a faulty henhouse door that hadn’t closed properly. It took a drubbing and was a very unhappy foxlet when humanity intervened. The fox was defenestrated (or dejanuated, whatever) and the door was repaired. But other birds, being airborne, can dive and swoop away. I guess chickens can too. What I was imagining was that if enough of the thousand or so members of Eratosphere all submitted their unworkshopped stuff at once (perhaps with a subtle swerve about good writing in the content) to Poetry or The New Yorker - essentially simultaneously - (an impossible dream of course), maybe something interesting could happen. I’m afraid that the New Yorker editors who choose their poems for consumption by native translators in London and St. Helena wouldn’t be moved though.