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Author's Note: When I finished my second poetry book, I wasn't sure whether or not there would ever be another one. Writing, I've found, is like that. There will always be a worry buried deep within me that every poem, like every story, will inevitably be my last. That is the unfortunate reality of creation, I think. One day you'll reach for a pen like a sculptor might reach for a chisel, only to find that not only is the tool gone but so is the desire to use it. I don't know that there's anything wrong with that fear, it drives, it inspires, and it is at the core of all my work. This notion of time. Perhaps more specifically, running out of it. And so, strangely, this book is a reflection not just of mortality and the strange sense that the creative life must be one of constant reinvention, it is also the laboring part of me that so wants to see the glimmer as well as the shadow, the devils and angels both in their tireless dance. I wrote this book in an effort to understand all that I'll never know and embrace the bittersweet happiness that walks with us over splitting sidewalks while morning flowers grow. I hope you carry these words with you, I hope they linger, and perhaps for a moment I hope time stands still.

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