by Evelyn Hooven (May 2016)
IN MEMORY OF
That night, we wove our way
With the white moon three fourths itself, more>>>
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2 Responses
Delicacy to match Dickinson, and as penetrating. Hooven’s interior landscapes, fresh and, at first, unsettling, are so beguiling that the reader must yield — to the music, sure, then to the surprises, and finally to that Self lurking close.
This work will be read long after we are gone.
What a fine spinner of words, of phrases, of themes, of memes. James Framo says it just right. Larry G