by Frances LeMoine. 85 pages. Asterius Press.
Book Review by Michael Basinski
Objects, a sneaker for example, so named, make these poems particular to their moment, moments often between men and women, women and solitude, between alone and the act of poetry, the poet engages in her otherness, some broken glass, Richard Brautigan’s body, the moon, plums, cookies, covers, an empty lot. LeMoine empties herself and mingles with the space and so makes her poems, clocks, pillows, pink, Mass, the smell of coffee, just a kiss.