I can imagine no poetic place more quixotically treacherous than the right brain of a missing person. With nothing to lose and everything to find, Waldner unmuzzles the wild horses and lets them buck. She asks only that her readers hold on for dear life because if they do—and they must!—good lord a flly is boxing with white gloves on the black ground of a photograpsh (sic). Everything requires a sic: The shrimpy girl, the bruised blue of wrong, shifting alphabets, lines linked, language demolished and glued back together before the very eye. Dark Would (the missing person) creates its own keyhole. Dare to peek.
