Poetry. "Sir, only our man in a stupor steps through your own books. Now the tree grew brown and blue, it's surface grew on. And before sleep and that first sweat on the lip the shock of those strokes stood and stand. Solid, conscious, geologic time. Business blues and metaphors envelop the reader in the swamp, will for at least a poet to a moment in a decade. Tony's not frightened. Faces of the verbal in vivid rags, hips in the stars, hope in a poem sort of star stops like secrets. As the spirit in the kid tells us, change the awe into writing"—from THE SON MASTER.
author @ PennSound