Scattered with a sparse collection of the poet’s original sketches . . . the poems move through the slanted and repetitive months of the pandemic, bleeding into “self-digesting” seasons.
. . . ruminations on the creative process and what it means when your sense of self is upended through a series of small violences capture the mundanity in trudging through a long-term illness.
There is the power of money and its capacity to corrupt—money that flows often from the pockets of wealthy white men but sheds some green onto any hand it touches.