Banishing poets from the well-ordered city did not prevent the creation of fictions: SHAM CITY is the capitol of fictitious capital, a no place of evaporating value where things sue for “damages resulting from sundown” and where “the night is good for it,” able to pay us back. “I began to sweat amid the cheering,” Harrison writes, maybe because, in a country where an entire village drowns “in the sweet contents / of its privatized wells,” it’s hard work to keep it real. And beautiful work. And weird.