A Certain Slant of Light

A plucked string of light, a slanted flight of photons, leaves the sun and then our moon, and if we’re just so to see it, it lives in us. For seconds or decades. Time is magnanimous or indifferent. Whatever is woven in woe, or no, the light is cold and warm in some touched, bespoke, combination.

My first books now exist as selves on a shelf. Cosmosis, the first, formed around choice, chance phrasings I found in me, having left Dickinson’s hand, once upon a private surge of urgency. A lucky, unlikely child now leans toward contacting its unlikely mother.

Next in the nexus, the word problems in Word Problems are their own spells that spilled out of me, bounced off the moon (about a light-second away), then waited fifteen years in the twinkle of an eye.

Of course, Converge & Interlace spontaneously appeared, feeling ready to come up from the drawer for air. Tim and I wrote this strange text together, from 2017-2023. It’s later than that, so why not exist in printed form, as well?

Fascicles all, letters in a wave.

Tomorrow a dozen copies, six apiece of Cosmosis and Word Problems, arrive. I already have one person in mind for one of each.

Only a handful of people know about these books. They’re milestones that followed me home. I’ll care for them. I’ll carry them with me.