October

OCTOBER is Michael Hanner’s second collection of poetry. It covers thirty-four row boats, four thousand dollars, the black Japanese chest and the bars of Reykjavik to begin the wheels within wheels. There is the diminished Vezere and those two tire ruts disappearing into the wheat field. Here, some ancient crystalized sultanas, beefy bruisers, the Canal St. Denis. And there? There is baby carriage on the stairs, a Palmetto bug fussing in the shutters, bowed screen doors and a Grumman Albatross coming in low over the house, all this and still, you remember the big Stilson under the front seat, a little Valpolicella after the days of falling in love in Madam Cleo’s guesthouse, the Interior Minister’s inspectors, Gianicolo Hill, the use of Vienna sausages in Pinellas County and even the gentle Art Deco curves in the pastel facade of the Orange Blossom Cafeteria. All this, all this, set out for you; each intricate disaster, wrapped in newspaper, tied with string and ready for you to take home. Bon Appetit.