that the brushes on the bottle-brush bush could not be redder, that a hummingbird looks in through the window screen, that both my arms
I’m standing knee deep in this deafening river. Down in the canyon, my voice echoes back to me. Flooded with pleasure and pain,
After Ada Limón It is the season I often begin again, even though I am too old for pencil sharpeners and fat, pink erasers,
Reviewed by Kathy Nelson “Dusk is a mouthful of loose teeth, the sky / darkening toward a black eye” writes Lindsay Wilson, signaling with