Poems - Bio - Reviews - Interviews - Reading
Her eyes flared like torches. She couldn’t understand
how she’d struck me dumb. She couldn’t
she said, how I could believe nothing, wouldn’t accept
that I would choose annihilation, death over
(That’s what she said: death over life.
Said it was a choice.)
She told me her lord stood and knocked and waited
for me to open a door. It’s really
a simple choice, she said.
Everlasting life or eternal death. Which one do you want?
Her eyes flared like torches carried by monks
or by villagers. Her
words seemed to float
from her mouth, and her teeth were beautiful.
Isn’t that strange, that teeth can be
Have you ever looked at a mouth and thought,
Those teeth are beautiful? Have you ever looked at a skull
and thought, Those teeth are beautiful?
Have you ever thought
about the teeth of a crocodile tearing at the flesh
of an early mammal, crushing bones and flashing white
against primordial mud millennia before the first hominid?
Have you ever thought about all those years of silence?
I didn’t want to hurt her as she stood there waiting.
I wanted to say something that would please her,
but I couldn’t
tell her she was right. She was not right.
She was neither right nor wrong, neither light
nor dark. She was neither
angel nor demon, neither dove
nor asp. She was neither
the one who could save me
nor the one who could damn me. She was neither
the pearl nor the meal, neither the fossil
nor the fir.
She was neither judge nor gem, neither catechism
nor catacomb, neither breath nor body nor fire nor fear
nor yes nor no. She was neither nil nor love
this half-life world, neither the bomb, nor the flash,
nor the wave that washes everything away.
Well? she said, nearly spitting, her eyes flaring still.
. . . one . . . do . . . you . . . want?
And my answer held there, like a flame,
in the deepening silence between
of severed cord
and flesh, lord of fever,
sweat, dementia, and meat cleaver,
lord of curtains set
ablaze, of burning,
lord of tumors, of remission, of returning,
lord of time and time alone, lord of space and empty
lord without body, without soul, lord without feet or face,
lord of statistics, lord of bodies, lord of death,
lord of breathless hope, lord of hopeless breath,
O lord of every deafened ear,
I know you’ll never hear
in vacant air
Aphelion & Aphasia
July, Virginia, one hundred degrees.
A wall of wind has swept enormous trees
off the face of the earth,
and a sick man
has killed twelve strangers in a theater,
and I’m supposed to craft an art
make something here worth memory, worth speech—
and I just want to make a confession:
I can’t frame, form, or even find those words.
Syllables stutter in my silent head
while the distant sun
spits its light at me
eight minutes, twenty-five seconds ago.
This morning I tried to articulate
a rough definition of poetry
to a table of strangers. I told them
essentially nothing. It was mostly
pauses, unfinished sentences, silence.
One evening during a broadcast bombing
of Baghdad in the nineties, my sister,
whose mind had not yet completely
into madness, tried to describe for me
the sound of a tremendous explosion
I had missed while I was
in the bathroom.
Boom! she said, and her eyes grew wide, her head
bobbed back a bit, and then she stared,
at the blank space before her, as if stunned
by the percussive force of her own voice
by its inability
to make any meaning, to say it right.
Wow, I said, trying to offer comfort.
We’d each managed one simple syllable,
and that’s the only
I can recall over the void of years.
I was leaving the family slowly,
my mother would call and ask, How are you?
I would say, Fine,
and we would both listen
to the silence on the line, and I would
listen to the silence of my bedroom
after she had hung up
in Florence, would imagine the silence
of that house that I’d abandoned her to,
silence she would sleep in and wake to.
In her last few
years, she lost more and more
the ability to speak. Right, right, right
was almost all she could say in
I can’t come home.
Right, right, right.
Mother, I won’t be coming
home ever again. I’m gone.
Right, right, right.
Mother, I wish it could
have been different.
Right. It could have been.
Right. It couldn’t have.
The last time I saw her in this world,
diagnosed with early stages
of Alzheimer’s. I sat at a table
with her and my father, not having seen
for months. I remember nothing
of the conversation except for this:
her slow struggle to construct one sentence.
It’s only . . . going to get . . . worse.
Right, right, right.
Composers, painters, and sculptors waited
as I tried to find the words.
But I was hearing the meter of words
unsaid, the silence between my attempts
closer to poetry, to truth.
I looked beyond them
and out the window
at the torn limbs that still littered the ground
after the great storm of two weeks before.
Dante’s suicides are denied the right
speak, transformed into small trees that sway
in hell’s wind. They must be injured again
to gain a momentary
voice. They speak
when Dante breaks their branches, and like most
of the souls in that inferno they use
allotted time to express regret.
My voice felt as wrong
as the distant sun
warming the earth when it’s farthest away
as I stammered about form, refinement
the soul, the transformative power
of metaphor, and the necessity
of failure. I smiled and excused myself.
I walked outside amidst the fallen limbs
and listened hard to their
to imagine the sound of the great wind
that passed two weeks before I’d arrived there,
feeling the heat of the far sun, knowing
it took eight minutes, twenty-five seconds
to reach me, knowing that
what’s in the past
is unreachable now and all voices
will be quiet forever soon, fading
as they get farther
and farther away.
- from Millennial Teeth
Poems - Bio - Reviews - Interviews - Reading
Dan Albergotti is the author of The Boatloads,
(BOA Editions, 2008) which was selected by Edward Hirsch as the winner of the 2007 A. Poulin, Jr. Poetry Prize, and Millennial
Teeth (Southern Illinois University Press, 2014), which was selected by Rodney Jones as the winner of the Crab Orchard
Series in Poetry Open Competition in 2013. He is also the author of a limited-edition chapbook, The Use of the World,
published by Unicorn Press in 2013. Albergotti's poems have appeared in The Cincinnati Review, Five Points, Mid-American
Review, The Southern Review, The Virginia Quarterly Review, and other journals. His first chapbook, Charon's Manifest,
won the 2005 Randall Jarrell/Harperprints Chapbook Competition, and one of his poems was reprinted in Best New Poets 2005.
His poem "Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale" won the 2005 Oneiros Press Poetry Broadside Contest and was
printed in a limited letterpress edition in March 2007. He has been a scholar at the Sewanee and Bread Loaf writers' conferences
and a fellow at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. In spring 2008 his poem "What They're Doing" was selected
for a Pushcart Prize. A graduate of the MFA program at UNC Greensboro and former poetry editor of The Greensboro Review,
he founded the online journal Waccamaw at Coastal Carolina University, where he is Professor and Chair of the Department
Poems - Bio - Reviews - Interviews - Reading
A Review of Dan Albergotti's The Boatloads
by Craig Beaven, first published by Blackbird
The concept of the Poet-Priest is an old one. We generally use the title
to describe those poets who seem to be attuned to a higher order, a higher sight or way of seeing that goes beyond the
mundane. These poets often have a spiritual bent to their work, seeing the sacred among the events of the everyday.
Dan Albergotti has taken this concept of the Poet-Priest to its logical, twenty-first-century conclusion. This
isn’t to say Albergotti is a priest, that he adheres to a specific dogma, or that he has taken vows of any sort
(other than, likely, the de facto vow of poverty all poets take). It means simply that he sees religious beauty and scale
in the secular, finds the strange, mystical, magical, unreal, and surreal in the life we all move through and engage.
The poems here position the speaker as one who, like Moses, is gifted with a kind of second sight, who can see things
that others cannot, and whose burden it is to bring these visions back to us, relay them in all their mystery and wonder.
Appropriately, the book begins with “Vestibule,” where the speaker recounts making love in an empty
church. Here, the physical act of love was more than the biology of intercourse; it “preached a quiet sermon /
not just on the divinity of skin, but on the grace / of the heart beneath.” Because the poem is written after
the Language poets and postmodernism, the speaker/poet must tip his hat to those who would scorn such grandiose visions,
and he acknowledges that many readers would find this image hyperbolic. Such is the dilemma of the poet who can see
and hear the spiritual life that goes on around us, often unnoticed. “And if you say sentiment and cliché,
then that / is what you say. What I know is what is sacred.” “Vestibule” is a preview of the bold poems
that will follow, the entryway to the larger cathedral inside. The speaker knows he will be called crazy by many, but
he sticks to his guns and images unapologetically, demanding that his way of seeing is as valid (and true) as any other.
Pews, hymns, lots and lots and lots of references to God—some readers may be wary of such close adherence
to religion and religious objects and materials. Albergotti never preaches, only seeks, and the emphasis on the spiritual
never overwhelms the power of poetry. A piece titled “Song of the Gods” begins with the drama and lyricism
of the lines “We live in the light, unbeheld, / in morning glare and the low rays // of evening.” That kind
of high tone is everywhere in the book, making for a poetry that feels larger than most being written today. Even as
the poems move through the everyday—having drinks with parents, watching a squirrel die, remembering a grandmother,
recalling a boy who burns his toy soldiers—the tone and elevated style always lift the poem into a sphere of higher
art and utterance, a speech beyond speech that is a purer record of human thought, consciousness, and knowledge. In “Lesson
of the Elements: Fire,” the flame that melts a child’s army toys is, years later, those other flames that
have burned through the centuries:
say Ilium and auto-da-fé,
and Nagasaki. Our words are like tongues
of flame atop toy soldiers, consuming us as soon
we utter them. We speak swirls of fiery stars
at the cosmos. Our words make flames rise
like the screams of victims or like the body
a god ascending into heaven. We say
and Omega, one and another word of the fire.
In the context of
the larger book, this flame can only recall the burning bush that speaks to Moses and the tongues of fire that appeared
on the heads of the Apostles when they began to speak in tongues. Here, the method of the text is laid bare: the thinking
and seeing take us through ages, places, people, and into the heavens, transforming flame and word and tongue into things
that are themselves and greater, bigger versions of themselves. The magic of this book lies in the consistent, awe-inducing
leaps and images that Albergotti makes, poem after poem, page after page. Call Albergotti’s style here a religious
vernacular, a style of poetry that captures the day-to-day experience, infused with grandeur, awe, time, history, and
Another approach to the mystical is evident in poems like “Methuselah
Dead” and “Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale,” which literalize and humanize the stories from the
Bible, finding humor and connections between the present and ancient biblical events and characters. Likewise, the recurring,
numbered poems called “Songs” recall both the book of Psalms and the songs of lamentation and praise that
the Psalms derive from, as well as often sampling from the longing-lyrics of a pop song from the radio. In these contexts,
Albergotti both humanizes the grandness and largeness of the Bible and connects our human experience to a greater, spiritual
one. Perhaps the “faith” of the
book is just that the world is beautiful, contains the possibility for greatness and wonder, that this world opens to
other deeper, better worlds right before us. We need a Poet-Priest like Albergotti to show us that world, to conjure it
and lead us through it, ferry us across, like his own Charon, mysteries and all. And that is what The Boatloads
Click here to read a review of Dan's chapbook, The Use of the World, at Southern Humanities Review
Poems - Bio - Reviews - Interviews - Reading
An Interview with Dan Albergotti by Daniel Cross Turner, first published at storySouth
Daniel Cross Turner: Many of your poems show a heightened
attention to the nonhuman surround. Your commitment seems to run deeper than a "landscape" or "nature"
poet: your descriptions of the natural environs are more densely detailed, more clear-sighted and painstaking-at times even
to the level of an excruciating "primitivism" in the mode of Robinson Jeffers, James Dickey, or Robert Penn Warren.
If there's something sacred in nature, it is often born of sacrifice, summoning the shared etymological roots of those terms
(e.g., "Affirmation of Faith"). But-perhaps in contrast to those previous poets-your poems pointedly, poignantly
note bloodloss without reveling in bloodlust.
Albergotti: That's true-I have absolutely no interest in blood for blood's sake. But the blood flows. The blood
flows every day, in the human world and in what you've called "the nonhuman surround." Most people simply turn
away, but I think it's the poet's job to show what's at stake in this life-everything, all the time.
I'm also very interested in the natural world as it exists in the absence
of the human. We tend to be entirely anthrocentric in our thought, placing ourselves at the heart of everything. But I'm
obsessed with the fact that we've been here for four seconds on Carl Sagan's "Cosmic Calendar." The rough estimates
suggest that the first hominids date to about 7 million years ago, with homo sapiens evolving around 100,000 years ago.
Meanwhile, the crocodile seems to have been around in its current form for about 55 million years. I'm interested in those
"human-less" crocodile years.
Your poetic treatment of animals, in particular, is astonishing. Your poetic creatures often embody what I call, borrowing
a great phrase from "Affirmation of Faith," a spirited carcassness-an animated or vibrant materialism.
The speaker notes some providence (though not necessarily a very special one) in the fall of a sparrow, whose corpse leaks
out "an expanding halo of clear fluid" that might well "continue growing even / if a neighborhood cat were
to spirit the carcass away." What draws you to animals in your poems? How do you conceive of connections-and divergences-between
human and nonhuman animals? What overlaps or distinctions do you see between human and nonhuman forms of consciousness?
DA: Based on what I said above,
I guess it's surprising that I would speak of animals in terms of human mythologies or ideas of spiritualism, but you're
right-I do it all the time. Maybe it's my sense of the purity of animal existence, a purity that comes from the lack of
self-consciousness. When Keats wishes to "fade away" with the nightingale, he wants to "quite forget"
what the bird "hast never known." And what the bird has never known, of course, is the fact of its own mortality,
that heavy weight that we humans always carry. To be able to shed that burden, to return to an evolutionary past uncorrupted
by that thought . . . well, it's an attractive impossibility. Maybe I'm trying to commune imaginatively with the animals
I write about. They seem at once more primitive and more advanced than humankind. And at times, yes, their purity seems
But while there is a remove of the animal from the human, there's also an undeniable sense of kinship. I
think the Human Genome Project's mapping of human DNA found that our genetic code is over 96% identical to that of chimpanzees.
Identical. It's not that we're over 96% "like" chimpanzees; it's that we're over 96% chimpanzee. Some
people might think such a fact is denigrating to humanity, but I actually see it as uplifting, even ennobling. "I'm
an animal. You're an animal too," sings Neko Case. Indeed. And that's a good thing.
DCT: Continuing along this line, your poems feature a number of birds of prey . . . often at
prey (e.g., "The Osprey and the Late Afternoon"; "The Mystery of the Great Blue Heron"; "The
Egret and the Dawn"). This motif in your work is perhaps something like poetic ornithology, or ornithology set to poetry.
What is it about birds or birdlife that impels your creativity? Is it some combination of grace and terror, beauty and force?
Or something else? What part, if any, do poetic precursors or influences play in your avian poems-for instance, the aforementioned
modern "primitive" poets (Warren or Jeffers or Dickey)? And/or Romantic forebears who famously made birds into
poetic things of song, like Keats or Shelley? Or, going way back, the classical poets, like Homer or Ovid?
DA: Well, my reference to Keats's "Ode to a Nightingale"
above already gives me away a little bit. For my money, it's the best poem in the language, and its lines are always in
my head. I'm also a big fan of Hardy's "The Darkling Thrush." And there are many more I could think of. I think
you hit on an important point with that combination of "grace and terror, beauty and force." Birds can make beautiful
music and fly with uncanny grace. They can also pluck the eyes out of a hanged man's corpse or, en masse, take down an airplane.
And they're supposedly the closest living relatives of the dinosaurs. So yes, there's something sublimely beautiful and
something sublimely terrifying in birds, and I do think that enigmatic combination plays a role in my fascination.
DCT: Although most of your poetic birds seem rather untamed,
nobly intact and aloof from human presence, you also describe domesticated animals in your poems, though these sometimes
seem to worry the very lines between "domesticity" and "wildness" (e.g., "All the Birds in Unison";
"Lost Birds"; "Notes for a Poem in which God Does Not Appear"; "Poem in which God Does Not Appear").
DA: The incident described in "Notes
for a Poem in which God Does Not Appear" is autobiographical. I was twelve years old. One moment I was standing there
with my 16-month-old Chihuahua and my great-uncle's Collie. The next I was slamming my fists into the larger dog, trying
to make him loosen his jaws from the torso of mine. It was the most formative moment of my youth, the event that showed
me we're never more than a second away from domestication's dissolution into savagery. That understanding has been with
me, has been in the forefront of my thought, ever since.
DCT: Most of your accounts of that nonhuman surround figure both the land/terrain and animal life
in meticulous detail and depth-there's a realness present in your poems, a heft or materiality. Yet you also offer mythic
scapes and creatures (e.g., "Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale"; "When the World Was Only Ocean").
What draws you to these mythic beasts? Do you think there's any important difference between "real" and "mythical"
animals in your poems? Sometimes even when describing the mythic creatures, you give them full material presence, like the
pair of unicorn suicides who give into despair and launch themselves off the side of Noah's Ark into the briny blue: "The
heavy splash they made filled the day . . . / their large bodies spiraling, / heavy haunches first, their faces staring
back up at us."
DA: I like
the idea of mythologizing the real and making real the mythical. The power of any myth is in its human center, not its supernatural
decoration. So it's essential for me to find the real, the material, in the myth. I think too often people get distracted
by the magical elements of mythic stories and miss what's most important. An example from the Judeo-Christian mythology:
The feeding of the four thousand. I think most people focus on the supernatural part-the part of the story that says that
four thousand people were fed with only seven loaves of bread and a few fish and that seven basketsful of leftover bread
were collected after all had eaten. But to me, the miracle of that story is not in the "magic" of the small amount
of food feeding the large crowd. The miracle is the act of human compassion, that someone with limited resources didn't
hoard them, but shared them freely, with no thought of self-interest, with others in need. The miracle of Jesus is the example
of selfless human kindness, not raising the dead, walking on water, or turning water into wine. That other stuff is specious
fluff that distracts from what's really important.
study of literature and art was always like this too. When I understood that my literary lions were real people who needed
to eat and drink and empty their bowels, that made them greater to me. Their grandness shines most through their human limitations
DCT: Your poetry
contains a range of Biblical imagery and allusions. In an interview with Charles Wright, I asked him if, following Flannery
O'Connor's lead, he considered his poetry to be "Christ-haunted"; he replied "God-haunted," not "Christ-haunted,"
shifting his spiritual ruminations away from a clearly Christian context. Would you say that your poems are "God-haunted"?
Is there space in your work for sincere faith? If so, in what?
DA: It's funny. I am extremely skeptical of the supernatural, but God shows up in my poems again
and again. Yes, "God-haunted" might be a good term for it. When I wrote "Notes for a Poem in which God Does
Not Appear," I thought of the title as something of a joke. As in "this guy would have to go out of his way to
strategize not including God in a poem." And of course, God makes an appearance in that poem. It seems I can't escape
God, however much I might want to.
Is there space
in the work for sincere faith? I don't know about space in the work itself. But I would hope that a reader of sincere,
traditional religious faith wouldn't feel unwelcome at the table, alienated from the work. Alan Shapiro once told me that
my poems "emotionally yearn for what their author intellectually disbelieves." Maybe that's where belief is in
my poems-always just beyond a grasp.
Attentiveness to locale/detailed location as well as religious references/Biblical allusions are often linked to traditional
notions of a "Southern" writer. I know you've discussed this issue during your video interview conducted by Natasha
Trethewey for Southern Spaces, but I suppose I'll ask for any updates: Do you consider yourself a "Southern"
writer? And if so, in what ways might you connect with-or diverge from-that field?
DA: The answer is still pretty much the same as the one I gave Natasha in that earlier interview.
I think the only Southern "landscape" to be found in my poems is the inner world of Southern "denial,"
the South's refusal to deal emotionally or intellectually with its troubled past, with its sins, even with the modern world.
That's why silence is such a prominent theme in my work.
Also, I don't think I had much encounter with the genuine landscape of the South often associated with the region's
writers. I grew up in a generic, faceless neighborhood of a generic, faceless town. For that reason, I've often felt apart
from the "Southern tradition," whatever that might be.
DCT: Family issues recur in your poems (e.g., "Stones and Shadows"). In The Words,
Jean-Paul Sartre noted of his childhood, "I hated my childhood, and all that remains of it," and sometimes we
seem to get a Sartrean sense of Hell as other people ("l'enfer, c'est les autres") in your verse, particularly
in the fraught ties that bind the family structure. Any value to family?
DA: For others, sure. But for me, family has almost always been troubling, perplexing, frustrating-a
virtual wellspring of emotional pain. You've pointed to the recurrence of this theme in my previous work. In newer poems
(those of the chapbook The Use of the World and the forthcoming collection Millennial Teeth), I've explored
it more frankly and fully. But I feel a little self-conscious even talking about it here. The assumption that family is
an unassailable virtue is so strong in our culture that most people don't even want to hear it questioned. I think beneath
the veil of cultural platitudes, though, in the realm of real experience, we might find that domestic dysfunction is the
rule, not the exception. Larkin's "This Be the Verse" is always on the tip of my tongue. "They fuck you up,
your mum and dad . . ."
John Hawkes famously said in the 1960s that the "enemies" of the novel were "plot, character, setting, and
theme," touting instead the crucial value of "structure-verbal and psychological coherence," even if that
structure is one that relates chaos. He was talking about what we used to talk about as experimental "postmodern"
writing, so his sentiment might strike you as far afield from your far-more-grounded poetry. But that quote came to mind
while working through your poems. Although your subjects range widely and you adopt and adapt varied poetic forms, would
you agree that there is a tonal coherence in your work that holds together and accumulates force? If yes, would it be fair
to describe this verbal and psychological structure as something akin to "darkness visible"? Or is this too grim
DA: I'm not sure it's
possible to make a "too-grim" reading of my work. I feel like my literary forebears are Hardy and Larkin. A lot
of grimness there, to be sure. And if it's possible, the work is getting darker. One of my close friends recently read the
forthcoming book, Millennial Teeth, in manuscript. He told me that he loved the new work, thought it was my best,
but then said that it was hard for him to articulate his response. This is what he said next: "There's just something
about these new poems. They're sublime. It's like you're looking straight into the abyss. Like you're standing right on
the edge . . . and hopping on one foot." I love that description.
But to answer your question more directly: Yes,
I think-at least I hope-that there is a tonal coherence to my work, and I think you're right to call it a version of "darkness
DCT: How do you
find the form for a poem? Does the content condition the form, most of the time? Or do you think the form conditions the
DA: I would hope, following
the Romantic ideal of organic form, that the structure of any of my poems is always in harmony with its content. I never
sit down with the idea "I will write a sonnet today." Ideas and sounds come first and then they find their structural
DCT: For instance,
you've invented a new sonnet form, nicknamed the "Albergonnet," a tightly controlled and structured mode. How do
you tread the thin edge between an explicitly artful form like this, while giving the serious subject matter its rightful
DA: When I first thought
of that strange little sonnet form in the abstract, I thought it would never work. The requirement of couplet rhyme in such
close proximity at the beginning and end of it, as well as its overly visible syllabic structure expanding then contracting
. . . well, it just seemed doomed from the start. But when I actually wrote the first one, I was surprised by how natural
it felt. Between the difficulty of getting started and the challenge of wrapping it up, the form allows for a lot of relaxed
exploration in the middle, while still provoking imaginative discovery with the continued demands on rhyme. Frost says that
if there's no surprise for the writer, then there will be no surprise for the reader. I've found the Albergonnet to be a
useful little machine for surprising myself.
What connections in terms of images, ideas, or forms do you see between your books? What differences between your first
volume The Boatloads, the chapbook The Use of the World, and the forthcoming Millennial Teeth?
Would you describe a "progression" between these, an "elaboration," or something else?
DA: In terms of ideas, I continue to "honor my obsessions,"
as Natasha Trethewey recommends. The "darkness visible" you note above is definitely continuing, perhaps even
"darkening" across the books. But I hope that there is enough tonal variety to avoid monotony. Formally, the chapbook
and the forthcoming full-length volume have seen me returning to formal verse a good bit. The poems of The Boatloads
are entirely free verse, but about two-thirds of The Use of the World and Millennial Teeth are in some
sense formal. I studied formal verse early on, then focused almost exclusively on free verse, and now I'm happily dwelling
in both worlds.
connected to that "spirited carcassness" dynamic, there is a tension throughout your poetry of a world
of things as against a world of language, the tactile realness of a world chock full of things (e.g., "Among the Things
He Does Not Deserve"; "Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale") limning up against the relative abstraction
of language, always in some measure symbolic, including poems about language itself (e.g., "Bad Language"; "Rhetoric").
Between the two, what gives?
Language always loses. And the fact that it does gives rise to poetry. Poetry tries to articulate what can never be articulated,
understanding its failure and stubbornly pushing the rock back up the hill nevertheless.
DCT: And finally, to complete our "sonnet" of questions and answers, I'll ask you my
mainstay question for poets: What is the future(s) of poetry?
DA: More poetry. A series of heartbreaking disappointments and frustrating failures. Charlatans
rewarded and geniuses dying unknown, their work forever lost. Despair, tears, syllables silent in the void. And the salvation
of the human race.
Click here to read an interview with Dan Albergotti by Geosi Gyasi at Geosi Reads
Poems - Bio - Reviews - Interviews - Reading
Click here to view multiple readings by Dan