Unless, of course, one begins to see in the world itself an infinite series of poems in the process of constellation. A series of shifting and at times revelatory sets of relations.
up from the depths
from a stone
I say that now is a desert of periphery
Yes, I’m still wasting my life, and it does seem to be, for me, a personal requisite for writing my poems.
I shiver / & shine in my thicket / of one.
Both heir and secessionist from Stevens’ monolithic presence, and determined to out-derange the surrealists’ involutions of reason, Christle’s verse stands out as ballast and vanguard for the oneiric work of her generation
b/c all my goings are
toward the from-where.
b/c the nothing is.
the nothing exists.