A poem, the father in the book argues, is worth next to nothing. And while the son disagrees, having experienced transformation through language, he also recognizes that the poem cannot buy the groceries and pay the rent. Or perhaps it can and it's just tricky. After having devoted years to writing, the poet remains uncertain and speculates that uncertainty is not so bad and is preferable to knowing.
Between the person and the poet, Still on Earth presents the angel who seems to have the same father that the person and the poet had. The two fathers are too close for comfort. For the angel, we must imagine a being with no experience of the physical suddenly confronted with the demands of the body, a being both naïve and worldly-otherworldly. The angel has been here before. In Romtvedt's reckoning, we all have. It's just hard to remember.
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