Thanks to a birthday gift from a friend, I sought out after reading one of his novels
the poetry of Steven Price.
I am reading Steven Price’s Anatomy of Keys which takes as its subject the life and lore of Harry Houdini. First line of the first poem :
The trunk alone understands the journey.
It almost arrests the reading from the get go. But it turns like a key in a lock because of its liminal position set off as a single line, almost an epigraph. From its position at the head of a section it sets a course for the reading that follows. Packs a mystery. Will we, the challenged readers, reach understanding?
Where has our trunk been?
What do we need to contain? To release?
And so for day 2871