In The Time Between, poems burrow deep inside rusty rooms, the brachiated hearts of sleepless women, the anguish pounding the fault lines of monsoons and long rains, the sheets of ancient wound and anger, the littered and abandoned alleyways of shell-shocked hamlets and towns. The infinitude of time sears, no greater or less than the mind and memory recovers through the stubborn hissing of distant flames burning. Time runs, ambivalent to grief.

To be you and I, to be like us, to be the blade caught in the metal cage of seconds, minutes, hours — to be man, woman and child now, in the time between — to be at home here in the world. To know how hard it is to bleed, to carry the silence that unceasingly grows dim and dark, Why eyes look outward, not inward.

These poems nibble at arguments, re-enact double lives of betrayed dreams, invent the beatitude of mourning, yet always seeking, always on the lookout for the radiance of hope that resists fading at dawn.