Reviewed by John Bradley “Everything past this page is a fiction” the reader is warned before reading a single poem in this book. It’s
Below the escarpment in ocean foam, dolphins make holes like the rings of Saturn. In Santa Barbara, in our cliff nest, we guzzle fruit
In November we leave behind flipflops, open windows, bike rides on swamp trails, a bush popping with plum flowers, a papaya that towers from
A good friend is animated tonight because he thinks he’s in love, dares to think this time it will be reciprocated. The clamor at