In entering the world of these poems, we enter a grand, mythic contest. All around us, time’s steady wind beats and tears apart. It blurs, softens, calls us out of ourselves, takes away our footing. And against that a single body – or two, and then a third – pushing back, taking root, re-assembling a world from the inside out. What we are left with is the molten residue of struggle – carved amber, a sprinkling of stars, poems distilling themselves down to verbs, or scars. These are extraordinary poems. Read them slowly.”