imp rest

It could be coincidence, just, that the artwork on the cover of this book is a piece called Water Gods, a vaguely female form with too many limbs, moving red through the air above an unknown presence barely visible below the blue surface. This is not what interests me, it's only something I notice each time I reach for it. I think I read the first one today, perhaps only this evening after working quite late, maybe less than two hours ago, but that hardly seems possible. It doesn't happen often, being met by a book this way, as though each word did not exist--in this poem, in this language, in these letters--before I laid eyes on it, before it spoke itself to life, to me, babe that I am, cooing and waving and shrieking to say it back, any sound at all to tell what I might know. Of course, this poetry found me, passes through me, the way snow melts down into puddles, into stone even, and still runs with all its might toward the Sea. It's not love, but gravity: there is no other way. Tonight I am grateful for this woman's life.

Readers, I hope this one finds you: The Radiant.