Reviewed by Basia Wilson In crafting a poem, any good poet knows to consider the myriad ways a reader may approach their work. Take,
in terrible cold, the space heater shivering the teapot chasing its boil, the street, unfurling through warped glass in ash, brick, and snow, and
All tapered, watchful, streamlined back from whiskers to racing ears to claws. Even in this stream I saw one, dowsing its snout through
Loneliness this bladed cannot be had without tenacity. Every night I dance a slow salsa against the whetstone. Whittle talons. Shave angles to tines.