Reviewed by Anna Scotti francine j. harris’s third collection, here is the sweet hand, is a messy compilation, a demonstration of the poet’s exhaustive
Spring again, and without discrimination, pollen lands on leaf, earth, house, truck and road, and I am off kilter with glory as it crowns
The first time I loved him, his exaggerated ears flattened as he peeked out the window pane. A robin pecked at bits and birdseed,
At the meadow’s edge the trees will not stop talking. They have so much to say about that space too broad for them