Spent most of this afternoon reading Elizabeth Willis'
'The Human Abstract'.
Take these lines, for an instance:
The work of love and the work of art
has no sleeping part
Is a drop of light
in a small silver socket,
a rosy dime
in a daylight tryst
(from 'A Maiden')
I'm really fascinated by Willis' web-like structures - how lines work in their own moment and resonate spun with echoes before and after. Receiving sounds. Sending sounds. And the whisper trembling through the lines of Emily Dickinson?
Breath-taking.
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