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Donald Hall doesn’t write poems anymore because, well . . .
In this here episode of The New Yorker Out Loud, Hall, in his lovably ragged voice, explains that his poetry has always been somewhat dependent on “sexuality.” But now, at 83, well . . . “My brain seems to work alright,” he says. Alas, the body. THE BODY!
Anyways, we’re willing to bet, like his progeny Jay-Z, that he’ll be back “wearing the 4-5”. Watch The Barn!