Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...


Bill Yarrow

As it shifts from allegory to narrative to lyric, you come to understand that this book is...a creature whose parts and attributes are constantly shifting--wings when it needs to be an angel, webbed hands for catching baseballs. How wonderful, how fun, and how different from so many volumes of genial, accomplished, and innocuous poetry. Wrench is a book that raises a welt.

--Tony Barnstone



He was a Decembrist but he was not
one of the hanged. They dragged his
frozen bones to Magadan where he
toiled in the ruined mines. More than
fresh air, he longed for glimpses of the
speckled light that sparkled off the sea.
He was used to the moldy smell of gold
ore and the whiskey whispers of his
comrades in hell. But he never adjusted
to the crisp loss of Maria to scarlet fever.
And the white nightmares never left him.
One day, he got a letter from his brother.
Their mother had died in a suspicious fire.
He lit a cigarette and filled his shrunken lungs.

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