Reviewed by Erica Goss “Can I break / my heart from clapping shut in this wonder / and wounder of a world.” These lines
August in L.A. a litany of the familiar, delphinium, dianthus, columbine, each flower, a vise on the redolent pocket of time, you seek deliverance
The call always in the orbit of that hour as a breath before speech, a cleared throat. Count the minutes on the half-clock— does
the trees bend crossways from the buildings, wavering grid of limbs against lavender sky. Our daughter asks to take a picture: she wants