NEW YORK — Hillary Clinton is reliving her stunning defeat to Donald Trump in a new book.

She admits personal mistakes and defends her campaign strategy even as her return to the political stage refocuses attention on a race Democrats still can't believe they lost.

Clinton is unsparing in her criticism of Trump and lays out some of the factors she believes contributed to her loss. They include interference from Russian hackers, the accusations leveled at her by former FBI Director James Comey and a divisive primary battle with Bernie Sanders.

But she also defends herself against common criticisms of her campaign. She rejects the idea she didn't have a compelling narrative for seeking the office and that she ignored key Midwest battleground states.

Poetry at Paradise

What: ‘Poetry Relections’ with Dana Gioia, California Poet Laureate

When: 1-3 p.m. Sunday, July 16

Where: Paradise Ridge Winery, 4545 Thomas Lake Harris Drive, Santa Rosa

Admission: Free, but please register in advance at eventbrite.com

General information: 707-528-9463, prwinery.com, celebratesculpture.com.

____

Cruising With The Beach Boys

So strange to hear that song again tonight
Traveling on business in a rented car
Miles from anywhere I’ve been before.
And now a tune I haven’t heard for years
Probably not since it last left the charts
Back in L.A. in 1969.
I can’t believe I know the words by heart
And can’t think of a girl to blame them on.

Every lovesick summer has its song,
And this one I pretended to despise,
But if I was alone when it came on,
I turned it up full-blast to sing along—
A primal scream in croaky baritone,
The notes all flat, the lyrics mostly slurred.
No wonder I spent so much time alone
Making the rounds in Dad’s old Thunderbird.

Some nights I drove down to the beach to park
And walk along the railings of the pier.
The water down below was cold and dark,
The waves monotonous against the shore.
The darkness and the mist, the midnight sea,
The flickering lights reflected from the city —
A perfect setting for a boy like me,
The Cecil B. DeMille of my self-pity.

I thought by now I’d left those nights behind,
Lost like the girls that I could never get,
Gone with the years, junked with the old T-Bird.
But one old song, a stretch of empty road,
Can open up a door and let them fall
Tumbling like boxes from a dusty shelf,
Tightening my throat for no reason at all
Bringing on tears shed only for myself.

— Dana Gioia

(From “99 Poems: New & Selected,” by Dana Gioia.)