My friend Lisa, a poet who also speaks fluent visual, sent me a book, By Common Salt, a collection of poems by Killarney Clary. “She’s a quiet poet, but one of my favorites,” L wrote on the card inside the package.

I sat down immediately and read the entire book cover to cover. Clary is a find. These poems are written in short prose form, something that is deceptive in its simplicity and flow. These feel strobe-like in their quick capture of an unforgettable moment, impulse, emotion.

Thank you for this introduction, Lisa. Now I’m on the look out for a visual artist who I can bring to L and knock her out.

Here are two by Clary to give you a taste.

What can anything stand for if to promise is to freeze circumstances? The illusions that growth is a sacred map, the way a member of the meeting will say, “Wrap it up,” the ticket line that stretches out—each points to spending life, and the few huge drops of rain dry away in seconds. I am someone else now. Try me again.


Where light falls between the door and frame onto the polished floor, where I put my hand at dusk in the grass while birds tune their orchestra, louder, more players until the air is all sound…

If I don’t have time, I feel the shadow swelling and desperation in song. Come to me when I am. I am not enough.