Carried by light, images remain while sensation is so evanescent as to be always beyond belief.

Lily Brown writes with and against things in poems that are coiled up tight as springs (or snakes). A believer in the power of the line, she writes, 'I think the plastics/and sink them' then 'Where is the sand/man hiding the dirt.' These terse, biting poems will make you look around and wonder.

The crowd is made of little gods, and there is still no heaven.

We are all full of discourses that we only half understand and half mean.

Poetry wants to make things mean more than they mean, says someone, as if we knew how much things meant, and in what unit of measure.

But here I hold your dream in my poem.

This is a strange book: visionary and dark. It stutters out a kind of music: repeated phrases which accumulate errors and mutate as they go like chromosomes or, as Woodward puts it better, 'visible fissile ribbons.' It's as if we were present for the moments of creation and extinction. Uncanny Valley is ominous and beautiful.