As I get older I know only two things: the starless chaos within (Kafka) and the random stars above (Proust). No moral center and thus no margin, no moral order outside or in and thus no disorder.  In the poetry of erica kaufman, we seem to hear the music of this random landscape with no teleology but Darwin Her humor is full of horror at snobbism and injustice and the acceptance of the most comical social sketch.  Her poems are by an adult woman who loves love without constraints, and no less believes that language is for a subversive voice, not simple structures. Who knows better that poetry is still woman in revolt?  David Shapiro