A review of Paul Hoover's
in The Pedestal Magazine
Late afternoon: half-moon sky whitewashed by weather. She is gone and he misses her. Thinking of her now, he sharpens her distance, wounds himself with her warmth. The taste of her mouth was shocking in its pleasure. Each time dreamt, some of her still disappears. There had been a misunderstanding, damaging words. Spring would come someday, with its rush of white water, nut-like buds, and first flowers. He was knee-deep in sorrow. The taste in his mouth was metal, like the residue of war.
Let this sad interim
fill with kindness, kill dullness.
Love sharpens oceans.
(a rewrite of Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 56” as haibun)