“Would I be thought of as the biological father, just a donor, not at all?”
“What is the effect of sildenafil citrate on stout-bodied passerines?”
“What was the annual per capita gross national income of China at the time of ejaculation?”
Ben Lerner’s “False Spring” is full of many questions, but not many answers. Blame it on his being a poet; he prefers ambiguity to resolution. “False Spring,” just like his novel, Leaving the Atocha Station, can be read as a Künstlerroman of sorts. Who knew a visit to the Park Slope Food Coop could be so transformative?