by Matt Masolini (Author)

Throwing handfuls of loaded imagery from a decade of memories, whence you began and who you became, up against a wall to find a little peony in the pieces that stick. Hoping that something reverential stands out from the tidepools of irreverence sitting in someone else's hands. Holding hands with ghosts in a hallowed game of Red Rover, roving the landscapes to see which words escape and bid them a sweet smell-ya-later.