Author

Our lives recall the textual. For one winter of my adult life, my father and I lived in a farmhouse in Boone County, Illinois. This was 1999. My father, Asel Poole, was dying of lymphoma. My wife and I had separated. The earth wintered; the air turned sharp with cold; the fields stretched expansively in white.

What Hoot Rawley talked about was the time before we were revisions of ourselves. The late afternoon was unblemished. Heat rose from the heaps of stone beneath us. Willows spotted the base of the gully.