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
I found a bird lying still, and I stumbled sideways, the way death often makes us. The way it leaves a mark on even
Consider andropogon: Having done with green She stands, no longer pliant Her yellow-dusted stamens spent. Her stems have learned the ways of wind
The street is nowhere to meet someone you’ve known all your life, and of all, that broad concrete is nowhere to find your uncle