Dying Man_COVER DRAFT_5.6.15About the Book:

Reading this collection is like watching a bowl full of beautiful, variously colored beads spill onto a tile floor and—miraculously—form kaleidoscope patterns. Carefully as he crafts these poems, always circling back to repetition even when the poem isn’t a formal sestina or pantoum, Graf wants us to remember when those beads, the words he loves so much, were still in the air, falling. —Katherine Riegel, author of Castaway and What the Mouth Was Made For

In his debut chapbook poet Derek Graf pushes back against those forces that would box him in, define him: the night sky’s pitch blackness, the night sky pregnant with stars, a cold apartment in the middle of nowhere, an airport layover, dead birds in driveways, lost loves, the wonders and burdens of creativity in a universe that’s either indifferent or hostile. There’s a certain bravery and lunacy in Graf’s stunning poems: “I drew you a bird while falling down the stairs,” he writes in one poem. And though the “planet is wild” and “home is a ghost,” he leads us—and we gladly follow—from “an empty city to a land / of fertility.” I look forward to following Graf for a long time to come. —Chad Reynolds, author of City of Tomorrow and Buenos Aires