"To touch its truth I punched my fist/ into the chopped molest// the boscage—withdrew my red sleeve.// Abstract that." If Carole Weinstein Poetry Prize winner Spaar's wordplay overwhelms, just relax and luxuriate in the language—rich, sensuous, dizzying, lustrous, baroque as "the palace's candied gold"—as it delivers an ineffable sense of mood, of being indisputably in the world.
—BH
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