This is the story of one man's dream to edit a groundbreaking contemporary poetry anthology, of how that dream was actually a lot of work, what with reading many bad poems and also competent ones and handwriting rejection letters and using his wife's family money to pay postage and production costs, all while trying to bounce his newborn son to sleep. It is the story of the epiphanies that come with extreme tiredness: that maybe, just maybe, the greatest poetry book of all is one that contains no poems.
