Abstract
A marianne moore poem must be walked round slowly—parts picked up, handled, mused on, laid back—then the whole thing walked round again—and again. The reader may give up on a particular poem, deciding that for the present he cannot decipher it. But the disjecta membra will not give him up so readily. Jigsaw puzzles exasperate some. Half-submerged in consciousness, however, these pieces from Miss Moore's poems breed connecting links.
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