From the vantage point of his window on humanity's breathlessly accelerating runaway train, Aaron Anstett records the fast receding frames as they flit by, and asks vital questions like "what now," "how do you know," and "why does God allow dry stuffing?" Yet the busily bopping, unpunctuated ribbon of his verse traces in meditative endlessness a shape outside itself, that of a vast engulfing silence.
From the vantage point of his window on humanity's breathlessly accelerating runaway train, Aaron Anstett records the fast receding frames as they flit by, and asks vital questions like "what now," "how do you know," and "why does God allow dry stuffing?" Yet the busily bopping, unpunctuated ribbon of his verse traces in meditative endlessness a shape outside itself, that of a vast engulfing silence.
