The vocabulary of whisper begins with fog over the river, a white break in the cloud cover, the great mastiffs, perhaps a coyote, silent music between two false indigos. a Where do we go from here? Once I woke to a rusty sky, huge chunks of degraded iron littering the landscape that only a few days ago green with a path of turquoise, a line of pink, a flowering succulent. The season does not die with a spasm, but the...
