...images of the white male poet enjoying his domesticity...

Hmm, I dunno. As a white male I'm extremely grateful for moments of enjoyable domesticity -- could go so far as to call them beautiful, deserving of their little poem-shrines in the vanishing woods.

The problem, as I see it, anyway, is the universal collusion to repress the thousand struggles that provide a context, sometimes sordid mainly banal, in which it makes sense that these pleasures might be so cherished. The collective exhaustion in the face of anxiety. The learned rejection of the possibility of communal action.

Let's go yodeling with the Marxist loners, what.