In Count the Waves, Sandra Beasley turns her eclectic imagination to the heart's pursuits. A man and a woman sit at the same dinner table, an ocean of worry separating them. An iceberg sets out to dance. A sword swallower ponders his dating prospects. The vessel is simple, a rowboat among yachts, the poet observes in Ukulele. No one hides a Tommy gun in its case. / No bluesman runs over his uke in a whiskey rage. Beasley's voice is pithy...
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Poetry