With the persistent, dappled vision of an ecstatic pragmatist,
Joyelle McSweeney sees things as they are through "the modern
knothole": "Up on the hill, / a white tent had just got unsteadily
to its feet/ like a foal or a just-foaled cathedral." Eventuality,
as it is delicately shaded by the fine and fearless intelligence of
these kinesthetic arrangements, coincides with imaginative
possibility; the resulting poems are as much mind as place; much
galaxy as time-inevitable and correct as only true whimsy can be.
"Outside, the web of tenthousandthings; / inside here, only three:
filmstrip of a helicopter's shadow; / against an Antarctic wall;
silkscreen/ of the grand central ceiling. The idealized landscape-/
I want a room in it."
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