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Top Customer Reviews
Swenson alternates between the manner in which he places his words on the page, form thickly dense prose-like paragraphs to sparsely flittered scattered lines. None of the poems s given a special name - SANTA ANA is enough because the tension and the mood is consistent.
You wake up shaky and unsure. What city time zone what bus: why did you fall asleep with your face pressed against the glass. Now your cheek feels sticky and dark. Outside the window you see an oil derrick in the backyard of a craftsman house. You pick up your phone but you keep dropping it. You can't feel your hands. It's hard to type when you're suffering form the delusion that you have no hands. The city used to soothe you. But you took it too many times. You've developed quite the tolerance.
You lean over the bureau like a surgeon over a basin. How you rinse you hands in its possibilities. How tremulous you are, how delicate, the truth is you've yet to stick a finger in, the basin's water a thin dark skim. And when you take the note in your hands the paper feels like butter, cold, nearly frozen butter.
How terrible it is when things work out. How easily you are fooled into thinking you've discovered something about the world a way of navigating through crags and thickets that others have somehow never discovered. How you marvel at the goodness of the world.Read more ›