Reviewed by Anna Scotti francine j. harris’s third collection, here is the sweet hand, is a messy compilation, a demonstration of the poet’s exhaustive
Great Capricorn Beetle Bertrand’s black body turns reddish brown at his extremities. He flies quickly but heavily from danger. He’s experimenting with children. His
I found a bird lying still, and I stumbled sideways, the way death often makes us. The way it leaves a mark on even
Consider andropogon: Having done with green She stands, no longer pliant Her yellow-dusted stamens spent. Her stems have learned the ways of wind