I watch the moon dwarf my bedroom window and shelter inside a question mark
With a mix of poems that are both surreal and grounded in reality, Bowers shifts between the conscious and subconscious, reality and dreams, as she seeks to find passage in a restless landscape.
When I find my voice, it muzzles the lark's chorus... my roots shrivel below the heath, but harebells bloom from my fingertips∼
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