Poetry wants to make things mean more than they mean, says someone, as if we knew how much things meant, and in what unit of measure.

The ghosts swarm. They speak as one person. Each has left something undone.

Thus drivers inching southward will see the phalanx of birds heading west as one spontaneous gesture.

But here I hold your dream in my poem.

Carried by light, images remain while sensation is so evanescent as to be always beyond belief.

We are all full of discourses that we only half understand and half mean.

We sleep together in the dark but confuse light with love.

Curled up in bed, I’m young in the old way.

This is a strange book: visionary and dark. It stutters out a kind of music: repeated phrases which accumulate errors and mutate as they go like chromosomes or, as Woodward puts it better, 'visible fissile ribbons.' It's as if we were present for the moments of creation and extinction. Uncanny Valley is ominous and beautiful.