before it was a metaphor First scrape fat from skin, turn to sun what never felt light, in vitriol bathe open wounds, sear to
These are my ways to walk among moons, a woods of moons, a bright moonarium, a soul scape lit by distant reflection. I count
—Toledo’s Glass Pavilion In this pavilion’s panes, shear material folds like scrolls of light, walls compress air. Invisible pressure. Surfaces reflect trees, the gauzy
from Steve Dunn, Riffs and Reciprocities Religion is proof a good story’s a powerful thing. What we say about our past becomes our past.