contents raze your son is a black_dog who won't live past his fifth birthday. some sort of lab mix, with a face too human to belong to any breed you know of. pictures of the two of you together are threaded through a book of your poems. in one shot, you're standing in your kitchen, smiling in profile with your teeth tucked in. another has you facing the camera. his left eye half-closed. yours open wide enough to see the sky beyond the canopy that keeps the rain from seeping in. fifty footnotes float above your words. all of them lead back to the first page. there is no table of contents. only a numbered list that hints at how much truth runs through the fiction you've hewed. 240922 what's it to you? who go blather from