to be a son is to hold the gun. the bullet's in your name but you never knew where to point it, we're halfway / through kansas and i'm making some suggestions.
Hemmed in by highways going nowhere and the men who disappear down them, Objects in Mirror builds an American body out of country music and familial grief. In these poems the dog dies, then dies again, the car un-crashes itself, and familiar radio noises lure brothers away from one another and into the restless west.
