"My poems are often dreams; my dreams are poems," Alexandria Peary
tells us in her marvelous first book. These poems describe a world
resembling out own, beneath which she finds endless off-kilter
surprise and beauty. "Outside," she writes in one in one startling
moment, "the driftwood struggled like arms & legs" and, later,
a recorded voice "looks just like a piece of tinfoil lying in the
sun / in which you could go swimming." I've long admired Alexandria
Peary's intelligence, her evocative skills, and her gift for
discovering in the everyday such dreamlike, frequently frightening,
moments.
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