The flush of leaving’s what we notice most— thus, the white glint of a steeple on the ridge across the river under a sky
Still you should praise the spring —Ha Jin After all, you remember how romantic some of your departed friends were— the sight of a
Scripto inferio* The aerogramme bears her name, ghosting beneath his news, never mentions their storied youth—long since reduced to runes, timeless as quills dipped
Reviewed by Dave Seter In her newest book, Brenda Hillman continues to push the boundaries of poetry, employing photographs, marginalia, and text corruption. These