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is intimately, intensely in conversation with writers and ghosts, the self, living and writing, love, dreaming and landscape, lightness. I began reading with this kind of world forming at the edges of the book and then I was completely in the world. Here, the Civil War is talking to the soul, Vermont is talking to a color. I feel so grateful for this, exhilarated by what poetry can do, by what Andy Peterson does as a poet. I want to say it is like assemblage, but its so much deeper than that: a kind of cinema of relation.

Amina Cain Andrew K. Peterson has given us a strange, startling book of poems. Images that read as elisions revealed via untraditional curves of syntax. Plush and fragile, elusive lines quiver Debbie Harry-like with subtext with something very wise, regretful, suggestive. A sonnet revises itself in an effort to return. Time withdraws, washes away, wants what it cant have. What we demand of words. Poems that open the terrestrial to the sky. Then a door closes somewhere in the poem but you get the sense you just caught sight of something unsettling behind it.

Ella Longpre it seems hard fr me to imagine all of us dying souls having much to do these days other than grieve fr the planettho, amidst this grief, sacred rituals allow us some space fr communion, transmission, the news...these poems exist like holy cartographies of that communion;elegant and disjointed,aprocessual of whimsical slippages and misrememberingswe are all together failingfailing sublimely/hellishlylove, i guess, is some kind of language we brush up against irreparablyat least, thats what i thought as thisanonymous bouquetcame down on me

jared hayes