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Bill Tuttle:

Meow Press
334 Bryant St. #7
Buffalo NY, 14222


A series of letters written during phases of the moon, haunted by its always partial light. Quietly jagged and intense. The pain of this book is the knowledge that the other we address is always the terror of our own imagination, that there may be finally no one to hear us. The hope of this book is that our fragments remain a source of wonder.--Mark Wallace

Without sentimentality the poetry in this book conveys, via a form of epistle, a subtle beauty and human delicacy. This is not the tired narrative of frank encounter. In these poems there are cracks in the opaque use of language. It is the sheer within the poetry which allows the sensual facet of language a presence. There is a voice in the sound of words.--Mike Basinski

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This review originally appeared in TapRoot Reviews #4,
Copyright Burning Press 1994, 1995.

Contact the editor, luigi-bob drake, at Burning Press