This prose-poem sequence opens with the following sentence: “Scenes left on the cutting room floor flower into their own scenery.”

Such an auspiciously suggestive start functions as a distillation of the book’s prismatic echo chamber, where painterly lyricism and narrative probing converge within each musically astute sentence. This is a symphony of partial happenings, ghostly movements, and investigatory ruminations, a stroll through an exhibit of paintings that seem to stare back at the viewer: captivating, gorgeous, and just a little bit scary.