Reviewed by Erica Goss “Can I break / my heart from clapping shut in this wonder / and wounder of a world.” These lines
The cursive of your hair on shower tiles—curtain folded with half moon & wolf howl—empty vials of Ren Faire oils named things like Ancient
Drop an ankle off the walkway and plunge into the reflection of the crisp fall moon or, better yet, the church stretching far below
When I heard that you passed away, I drove thirty years, back to the library. Our table was still there. Where I had set