"Eleni Zisimatos opens Nearly Terminal with a Dantean warning: The death of human consciousness is white. Yes: To venture onto these imposing white pages is to navigate a blinding snowscape where words are the sparse objects that poke out of the drifts, like inukshuks, suggesting directions and meanings that are impos- sible to pinpoint, to pin down, because they are jests of gestures, as revealing in their amplitude as are Cut up clouds. Nearly Terminal recalls Dame Atwoods Journals of Susanna Moodie, but also John Thompsons barely there ghazals, all that blank space Blitzkriegd by incandescent inklings, those dark flashes of insight amid the vacant, Arctic desert of Such white, much despair, where winter means erasure, a white eclipse. George Elliott Clarke

"Eleni Zisimatos opens Nearly Terminal with a Dantean warning: The death of human consciousness is white. Yes: To venture onto these imposing white pages is to navigate a blinding snowscape where words are the sparse objects that poke out of the drifts, like inukshuks, suggesting directions and meanings that are impos- sible to pinpoint, to pin down, because they are jests of gestures, as revealing in their amplitude as are Cut up clouds. Nearly Terminal recalls Dame Atwoods Journals of Susanna Moodie, but also John Thompsons barely there ghazals, all that blank space Blitzkriegd by incandescent inklings, those dark flashes of insight amid the vacant, Arctic desert of Such white, much despair, where winter means erasure, a white eclipse. George Elliott Clarke

"Eleni Zisimatos opens Nearly Terminal with a Dantean warning: The death of human consciousness is white. Yes: To venture onto these imposing white pages is to navigate a blinding snowscape where words are the sparse objects that poke out of the drifts, like inukshuks, suggesting directions and meanings that are impos- sible to pinpoint, to pin down, because they are jests of gestures, as revealing in their amplitude as are Cut up clouds. Nearly Terminal recalls Dame Atwoods Journals of Susanna Moodie, but also John Thompsons barely there ghazals, all that blank space Blitzkriegd by incandescent inklings, those dark flashes of insight amid the vacant, Arctic desert of Such white, much despair, where winter means erasure, a white eclipse. George Elliott Clarke