I meander into my next poetic project with altering obtuse perspectives – call it that – some sort of acid trip without the external acid. I see how in its [the projection] unfolding, peeling back into and through layers, this next manuscript, a possibility of a book, I reach into where it the creative mold is moving, something[s] so diagonal from the first. So earnest a reversal. So large an other, hiding the red, quiets the celebration of a motherland. The exhalations fall coming to the home of the father, the opposite of an exaltation.