Soundwaves. It’s the difference between one stillness and another stillness.

There’s a level at which words are spirit and paper is skin. That’s the fascination of archives. There’s still a bodily trace.

Whose order is shut inside the structure of a sentence?

A poem is an invocation, rebellious return to the blessedness of beginning again, wandering free in pure process of forgetting and finding.

I often think of the space of a page as a stage, with words, letters, syllable characters moving across.

In Maureen Owen's perfectly titled Erosion's Pull, words and lines map, unmap, and revamp our everyday postcontemporary geographies: ironies and ambiguities, surrealistic conundrums, kaleidoscopic comedies, puzzlements, certain and uncertain loves and losses.

Soundwaves. It’s the difference between one stillness and another stillness.