She’s inside that animal, the body of a cosmic animal with a stellar eye. Speak, transparence! Listen to the little girl singing in the wind pit—the echo distorts her phrases. Wind smears her voice, serrates its edges. She is sustained, infused, captivated by its mixed airs. She will live through its illusion. - Christine Hume

Okay, moving sucks. On to the next (no, really--on to the next apartment. please let me move in, pretty please). To distract myself, and because I've been meaning to do this since AWP, I'm working on a review for the BWR web site. It's nice to be involved with BWR again, and it's nice to sit around and think about writing. I set out thinking I'd get personal in this review, tell stories about tornadoes and my own fear of wind, but when I started writing, I started writing about female voice. Huh. This thing is still in the works, but it's nice to feel the same kind of creative surprise that I feel when writing poetry. I've always let intuition guide me into stranger corners, listening/extrapolating/spinning along variants of image and sound. Composing is hard, of course, but when it's easy it's easy, just like listening and getting caught up. Following the edge of something into a space that is more tangled, more jugular.