Foreword Reviews - - Spotlight University Press Poetry -

The day was its own warn­ing. I was think­ing of his head on a plate in my lap. I was think­ing of its soft loops of curls, fine as the hair punched into plas­tic doll skulls. I felt strange & elec­tric & so did the sky, & when I looked out of the win­dow, it looked back with green. There were clouds & clouds’ low stom­achs lined sil­ver. There was a room in which I stood alone. When the squall line quick­ened, the room be­came aching. The room be­came wool. No god was there.

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