The first poem in this collection juxtaposes a house being closed up with a tragedy at a beach. In the penultimate, Paschen writes “I entered the room / of this life to discover / time had come to move.” In between are infidelities and funerals, umbrellas hurtled by the wind, landmines hidden in sand, and tightly wound rhymes that hint of a spirit coiled, waiting in the dark. Best read at night.
It is right that the murder of many people be mourned and lamented.
Even the best weapon is an unhappy tool.
What do they do, the singers, tale-writers, dancers, painters, shapers, makers?
Five principles for embracing uncertainty.
Where to give all your precious fucks.
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